


Phantasmagoria

by bloodsongs, kibbledor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, canon AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibbledor/pseuds/kibbledor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in the throes of a conspiracy, Sherlock is framed for a crime he didn’t commit as he escapes custody, running from the law and Moriarty's laughing shadows. Armed with nothing but scattered clues about a mysterious organisation, 'Wonderland', and his considerable wit, Sherlock tries futilely to prevent further deaths in this string of murder and deception only to be outsmarted at every turn. John and Irene assist him with his investigation, but the clock is ticking ever louder... and Sherlock's going to be late to the Tea Party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantasmagoria

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Johnlock BigBang on LiveJournal, so do go and read the other works if you have the time! Enjoy. ♥

“It’s going to start very soon, Sherlock.”

Sherlock remains silent, the silence between them heavy and palpable in the flat. The twinkle in Moriarty’s eyes is smug, insufferably so, a subtle reminder of his triumph and his defiance in strutting away scot-free, escaping the law. 

Everything about Moriarty’s confidence screams _I can do anything._ There’s a challenge in the way he leans back, drumming fingers on the edge of his teacup, something that just riles Sherlock enough to encourage him to dance.

“The fall. But, don’t be scared. Falling’s just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination.” Moriarty almost smiles, and Sherlock thinks he understands. John had mentioned it, too, and it was obvious; he would simply find a way out, wouldn’t he?

Moriarty glares at him, suddenly alert and all sharp eyes again, and Sherlock meets his gaze steadily. After a moment, he stands to button his jacket. He has to see Mycroft, and Sherlock is hardly going to let Moriarty make him late. “Never liked riddles.”

As he expects from his subtle prompt, Moriarty stands and straightens his jacket, too. “Learn to.” 

A pause, and Sherlock can see it flashing through his eyes before he speaks. “Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. Owe. You.”

Sherlock watches him go, far quieter than when he arrived, padding out unheard, even, closing the door behind him. The apple, however, has been left behind, lying innocuously upon the knife Moriarty had played with. Sherlock waits a moment before he picks it up.

 _I. O. U._ Haphazardly carved, but Sherlock catalogues it in his mind palace anyhow.

“How quaint,” Sherlock hums to himself after a long pause, tossing the apple back onto John’s chair. He would find it afterward.

+

Sherlock is bored.

Coolly sidestepping and flashing a quirky, apologetic smile at yet another simpering woman who wants to strike up a conversation with him to discuss how dashingly he’d solved his last case, Sherlock manoeuvres his way through the crowd to look for John. He spots him near the edge of the ballroom, just over by the dessert table laden with enough cake to make Mycroft a very happy British government indeed.

He makes a beeline for his flatmate, and accidentally bumps into a lean, hook-nosed man, who stutters to a stop and glances at him askance with coolly furious eyes. Sherlock is thrown for a moment at the sharpness of that gaze, but rights himself almost immediately and utters a quick, not particularly sincere apology before moving around the man. He can still feel those eyes on him, but he thinks nothing of it. 

All things considered, Sherlock supposes the dinner could have been worse  — just imagine if Anderson had been invited, dear God. He really isn't a fan of such social situations, but of course Mycroft had to drag him here for a dinner with that last client he’d assisted, had to insist coolly on how it was the polite thing to do — that no, not attending was not an option, and no, he couldn't receive any merits in private, and really, would Sherlock _please_ stop making those faces, it was very unbecoming.

John hadn't been too pleased about it either, especially because Sherlock had blurted out, " John is coming!" when Mycroft asked if he would be bringing anyone. Naturally, Sherlock had shot John a glare that promised certain death and a lifetime of holding this over his head if he refused to accompany him.

"Like a plus one?" John had uttered, scandalised, and Sherlock had just shrugged. "You don't have a date, anyway," he had responded callously. John had opened his mouth, about to ask something along the lines of how Sherlock would have had any idea of that (the answer lay in the unopened letters on John's desk, the general slump he was in for previous week and a long story involving John's atrocious orange umbrella) but wisely shut it again. Sherlock was always amused at how John went ahead with Sherlock's stubbornness anyway because that seemed like the easier thing to do.

"A husband knows how to pick his battles," Mycroft had said nonchalantly, and they had both ignored him. The sole personification of the British government or not, Mycroft tended to say some damningly vague things.

“How are you coping?” Sherlock asks quietly as he moves closer, and John looks up. The picture of slight melancholy in his smart get-up, John nurses the wine in his glass while looking morosely at various fancy paintings in the corridor. "They're all going to think I'm your date," he hisses under his breath at Sherlock, face already a little pink. It's always been a little joke between them, how John's terrible when it comes to holding his liquor and Harry can down glass after glass after accursed glass before she succumbs. "No matter what I say…"

Sherlock pats him, feeling a little sorry for John since he had insisted John follow him here. They're both a little out of place, two little mismatched pieces in an overall picture that's too grand, too resplendent for the likes of an army doctor and a consulting detective, but Sherlock never lets things like that get to him. He never gets nervous, nor intimidated. Not if he can help it, at least. "Does it matter, John?"

John just sighs, turning to look at Sherlock, wrestled into a neat-looking suit by Mycroft and coming across as extremely severe to anyone who so much as glances in his direction, making them nervous. Not John, though, of course. Never John.

“Not that it’s going to make a difference.” John throws up his hands. “That lady at the café down the road the other day, she brought us _flowers_ with our coq au vin. Apparently, she found them ‘très romantique!’”

“Your pronunciation is atrocious, doctor,” Sherlock says amicably, and pats John consolingly on the arm while John sputters. “They did wonders for the table decor. Anyway, I didn’t see you complaining.”

“ _Sher_ lock _._ ”

As if on cue, Sherlock whisks another glass of red from a passing waiter and smoothly offers it to John, expression abruptly schooled into sunny innocence. “Oh, look, John, you simply must have another glass. It absolutely has your name on it  — I insist.”

The glare John directs at him would have quailed a lesser man, but Sherlock is made of sterner stuff. It’s mostly amusing, really, how he infuriates John so — but in all the best ways, he’d like to think. Letting out a huff, John accepts the glass, eyes still narrowed and eyebrows raised, his own unique way of letting Sherlock know he sees his little attempt at distraction for what it is, and takes another sip.

Sherlock leans in, gazes intently at John’s face, and rubs a thumb over John’s eyelids absently. “That probably wasn’t such a good idea,” he muses. It really isn’t, because John’s not reacting like he usually does when Sherlock invades his personal space, because John’s quietly flushed with an intense expression on his face as he looks right back at Sherlock. It is a little worrying; John tends to bluster and move away, but now... “Are you alright?”

John just blinks, and sways a little on his feet. It’s a little endearing how John, usually so sturdy of foot and sure of himself can wobble like that when he has only had a few. “I am. I think. Just the few drinks, that’s all. Yeah. I’m fine.”

Tutting, Sherlock takes John’s now empty glass, twiddles it about his fingers and sets it back expertly on the tray of another oblivious waiter shuffling by. “My fault, I’m afraid. No more drinks for you, then.”

Sherlock tugs John gently away from the table, guides him to a wall so he can lean against it. John does so, tilts his head back and closes his eyes, gripping onto Sherlock’s arm. “I might have rushed the last few glasses,” he admits. “Was just feeling a little... I don’t know. I was angry about Moriarty, he shouldn’t have...”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, and slides a hand up to press at John’s neck, a subtle massage. He is mildly surprised when John doesn’t jerk or pull away, but leans blindly into the warmth and pressure instead. Sherlock thinks he understands — he has been, and still is angry too. His anger is far less kind — a slow-building, simmering thing inside him, dark, spiteful and vicious at Moriarty’s antics, his taunts, his tauntingly _clever_ effort in playing the members of the jury like puppets.

And then he’d strolled out onto the streets, as brazen as you please.

He grits his teeth at the memory, biting his lip, and tries to think instead of John next to him, clearly inebriated and needing his attention. Sherlock presses the pads of his fingers in, strokes John’s jaw. It feels heated under his touch, a longline of warmth and flushed skin. 

“Oh, keep doing that, that’s rather nice, actually.” John murmurs, distracted, tilting his head further back to allow Sherlock’s fingers better access to the curve of his shoulder and nape. He seems to have wandered off into his own little mind palace, forgetting where they are and the people they’re around. It probably doesn’t matter; they’re in a darker corner of the corridor, anyway. Hardly visible.

Sherlock clears his throat, but not loudly. “Would you like to leave, John?” He is a little reluctant to leave, with John showing such a rare display of warm, soft vulnerability here, with him. That’s just that, though — Sherlock’s never been known to be generous, and a part of him jealously thinks that John’s trust, John’s absolute trust and the sight of John like this, kind of like just _Sherlock’s_ , is his and no one else’s.

“I think...” John opens his eyes, hooded and heavy-lidded, brows knitting. He’s still not pulling away from Sherlock, even though he’s lifted his eyes to look at him, hazy-dark on blue. Interesting. “Yes, that would be good. Is it time to make a hasty departure, then?”

His heart aches a little, seeing John like that, being upset and drinking to drown that disappointment on his behalf. “Let’s head back. Shall we, my date for the evening?” Sherlock chuckles, holding one arm out like he would for a partner at a ball to take.

“Don’t you start,” John vows, batting his arm away, and places his own hand over Sherlock’s on his cheek, lifting it. His hand is warm too, Sherlock notes. Just like his flushed cheeks. It’s not just his body temperature, really. Everything about John is warm, like the welcoming hearth of a lazy fire, like smoky ashes in an orange kitchen. It’s pleasant, a complement to the ice of detachment and cool efficiency that permeates his routines.

They walk companionably for the better part of ten seconds back to the ballroom towards the exit before something crashes, and a few people cry out in shock and alarm.

Someone cries, an almost imperceptible shake in her voice.  “Don’t _shoot_ —” 

A gunshot rings — there is breathlessness in the air for a moment, and then guests are rushing out in droves, tripping and pushing at one another, clambering for escape. _Chaos._

__

It is bewildering, but there is no time for hesitation in confusion. Sherlock quickly sights an available knob and opens the corresponding door, pulls John behind it to wait out the bulk of the crowd before slipping out again, alert, yanking John out to through the screaming and blubbering horde.

The noise is obviously from the ballroom, and he follows it.

Sherlock isn’t a fan of clichés, but the thick silence around him as he leans against the door really _is_ deafening. He can’t hear anything but the slightly accelerated thudding of his heart against his ribs, and (John would absolutely berate him for this, he remembers, smirking) the _excitement_ he feels is tangible, clawing for release. 

He chances a quick peek, and nearly gets a bullet to his eye for his efforts. One of _those_ incidents, eh?

“Right, this might just be what we needed to take the entertainment value of this party up a notch,” Sherlock declares. John glances at him, appalled, still woozy from the alcohol but otherwise on guard (he’s never really hidden his admiration for John’s ability to snap to attention even in moments like this — Sherlock’s just rather covert about it) and whispers, sharply, “Poor timing, Sherlock, _get ready._ ”

“Always am,” he replies, and that last word comes out of him in a whoosh as he slams the door open and ducks more bullets being shot at him. “You reckless _idiot!”_ John yells from behind him, but Sherlock cannot concentrate on that right now as he picks up a lone punch bowl to throw at their assailant, who dodges it.

The man hesitates for just the briefest moment as the bowl misses him, but it’s enough for Sherlock to recognise him as the man who’d bumped into him earlier, all sharp angles and cold eyes, gun in hand. Remarkably well-dressed, Sherlock notes absently, and furrows his brows. A guest of honour?

“You launch an attack, in the middle of a ceremonial dinner.” His voice is smooth, rock-steady, but he is very much aware of the fact that he is unarmed. Sherlock is a master of unarmed combat, because sometimes getting the upper hand in a situation lies in the advantage of your opponents’ lesser expertise; a poorly-used weapon would almost always belong to one’s enemy. “Why?”

The cold stranger is silent, eyes calculating and seeming to read into Sherlock’s every move. Sherlock looks at him right back, notes the lithe grace of his frame, his practiced movements. The man is trained, possibly an assassin, but everything else about him screams well-off and _important_. It’s almost discordant, and Sherlock can’t quite put his finger on it.

“I don’t believe the cat’s got your tongue,” he prompts after a moment, pushing for time and hoping someone’s called the police. It wouldn’t do, of course, to be delayed by a madman.

“Must be Christmas,” The man’s voice is a low rasp, smooth and amused. Practiced, just like his calm, collected steps. Someone used to oratory, to speaking with conviction. “Illustrious Sherlock Holmes wants to know my name.”

Sherlock huffs, just a little, lets a small smirk bloom on his face as he tilts his head invitingly in provocation. “Who sent you?” The words unsaid hang between them — why the dramatics? 

His last words aren’t a question, really. Sherlock is aware he will not obtain an answer.

The man only laughs, and then says harshly to no one in particular: “ _Now._ ”

The lights abruptly go out. 

Next thing he knows, John’s made for him in a straight line, angling his body to defend Sherlock. He feels John tense, combat-readiness radiating from every limb, and Sherlock steps quickly away to lean against the wall, fiercely willing his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness.

“Don’t worry about me, spread out,” Sherlock hisses under his breath, when he can finally, finally make out the faint outlines of objects and people through the dark paint of his night vision, feeling John’s tension like a bowstring next to him.

John makes a frustrated noise, pulling Sherlock back, efficient. “I don’t know,” he says, voice low and skeptical. “This is a perfect time as any for an assault, but this feels like—”

There’s a glint of something behind John reflected in the wan, thin moonlight from a window, and a shuffle of movement that doesn’t quite register with Sherlock until— “John, down!”

“What—”

He pulls John down with him as another gunshot goes off, the bullet whizzing past them. Sherlock hisses at the stab of pain when his shoulder slams into the floor; he grits his teeth and shoves the pain somewhere to the back of his mind, squinting in the dark and hoping to catch a glimpse of something — _anything_ that might give away the attacker’s location.

There are a thousand unanswered questions churning in his mind, but he needs to focus. Now, preferably.

John quickly rolls away from him and whispers, “Be careful!” at Sherlock rather fiercely. Sherlock resists rolling his eyes, because he always is — but it’s not the time for sarcasm, much less unnecessary noise. He brushes the edge of a table, feels the slide of cloth against his fingers, and grasps blindly at the table for something that he can use, ends up with... a cheese knife. He sighs in the dark as he closes his grip around it, holding it up to inspect. What an image he must make, attempting to fend off an assassin of sorts with a cheese knife, of all things.

He’ll worry about that later.

“Surprise,” an amused drawl sounds from behind him.

Sherlock whirls around in shock, knife tight in his grip as he turns to face him, but he’s a second too late as he feels the punch to his stomach, the blow to the back of his neck.

How could the stranger have approached him from behind so fast? Sherlock coughs from the pressure, falling to his knees. The man sounds different from the one who had attacked them earlier, he realises with a jolt. A different lilt, a deeper baritone. _Multiple,_ he concludes, and then his mind is mostly silent.

He crumples to the floor, and thinks he hears John’s voice in the distance, calling for him in alarm. “Run,” Sherlock rasps, unsure if John can hear him, unsure if they’ll both make it out of this.

The darkness claims him, both lulling and suffocating at once.

+

Noise.

There’s noise everywhere, he registers dimly. Voices, buzzing all around him. There are some sirens blaring, too, but slight muting informs him they’re probably outside.

“Will you cease that infernal racket?” Sherlock groans against the floor, shaking his head weakly, wincing as the pain blooms in his neck, his limbs. His head hurts, too, but it doesn’t feel like a concussion. The lights are on again; he feels the brightness burn at the edge of his eyes, white and unwelcome.

“You’re in no position to make any demands, Mr. Holmes,” someone says gravely.

 _That’s_ a little out of the ordinary, even if people have been rude to him upon his regaining consciousness previously in the past. “Excuse me?”

Next thing he knows, Sherlock is being manhandled roughly to his feet, a gruff and unkind hand hauling him upright. The sudden jerk of movement throws him off-kilter and makes his head throb even more. Even more disconcertingly, a gun falls from between his fingers with a loud clatter. Sherlock snaps his attention to it, recognition in his eyes, but shocked. The assailant’s...?

“You are under arrest,” someone hisses at him, turning him around with force before pinning him against the sharp edge of a table. The familiar, audible clinking sound of handcuffs registers, and then they’re clamped over his joined wrists, cold and cruel.

“I don’t,” Sherlock begins, confusion slowly fading to a fierce indignation, rearing viciously. “Explain! On what charges?”

“Under suspicion of murder.” That voice is familiar at least, but it is heavier than he remembers — Sherlock turns around so quickly to look at Lestrade that he almost gets whiplash.

“ _Murder?_ ” He repeats, the sheer incredulity crossing his face, but Lestrade’s expression is hardened. Sherlock’s face falls, and his eyes narrow.

“That is ludicrous,” Sherlock grits his teeth. He didn’t even get an attack in with that bloody cheese knife! His head swims. “Nothing of the sort happened. Ask John, we were attacked, and I was unconscious, for God’s sake! Our assailant must’ve gotten away—”

"Sherlock," Lestrade cuts him off. He has his arms folded tight, and his voice sounds like a rehearsed speech, wooden and flat. Sherlock locks his eyes on Lestrade’s, seeing only hard disappointment. Why...? "You attacked a group of guests last night, under influence, and there's a dead body on the floor with what we _think_ will be your fingerprints all over it. So..." He looks at the cuffs. "You're very much under arrest, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stares over the corpse, recognising the same man from the night before, and grunts disbelievingly. The murder is messy, clues lying all around the body, if they would just _look._ “Impossible. Do you think me such an amateur? I didn’t do it. Even if I _were_ to commit a crime, I wouldn’t be so juvenile as to leave evidence of it all over the place.”

“You’re not exactly helping your case here,” Lestrade says sharply, dry as ever, pulling at Sherlock’s cuffs so that he stumbles. “Say whatever you want, everything you say will be used against you, you know the drill; we have witnesses, guests who saw you shoot at the poor man, who got shot at by you and fled the hall screaming.”

Before Sherlock can retort, another voice interrupts. “What is the meaning of this?”

Both draw back and raise their eyebrows almost in unison at Mycroft Holmes’ entrance.

“Sherlock, _why_ are you handcuffed?” Mycroft asks, long-suffering, eyes flicking between Lestrade and Sherlock.

Sherlock glowers. “Ask these bumbling fools from the Yard, why don’t you? I’m under ‘arrest’,” Sherlock rolls his eyes with a look at his brother. “For ‘suspected murder’, honestly.” He turns back to Lestrade with the hint of a sneer. “I wonder if _you’re_ not the one under influence, detective inspector,” Sherlock hisses the title. “And where’s John?”

“Your doctor’s fine.” Mycroft waves at him, turning sternly to Lestrade and drawing his immaculately dressed self up to his full height. “He’s getting questioned elsewhere. Isn’t it obvious that Sherlock’s not the murderer, Inspector Lestrade? Surely you’ve had a look at the evidence — furthermore, Sherlock came here to receive a merit, what reason would he have to kill the poor victim? I don’t think he’d even _spoken_ to him before tonight!”

Mycroft offers a pleasant smile to Lestrade with his arms spread wide in a universal _what did I tell you_ gesture, but Lestrade is still unconvinced. He squints at Mycroft a moment longer, but Sherlock’s had quite enough.

Shaking his head, Sherlock shakes his cuffed hands, feels rather than hears the short chain jangle. “Lestrade,” he insists. “Whoever it was that attacked us must have... planted the gun in my hands to make it look like I was the attacker, but if you check... surely there were surveillance cameras!”

“We’re running a fingerprint scan as soon as possible, although only one set has been confirmed,” Lestrade says firmly, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the momentary flicker of uncertainty across his face.

He presses on, slightly encouraged. “I didn’t even bring a gun to the damned event. They checked us! Just think, damn you — it’s common sense, Lestrade. It wasn’t me, John could—” Sherlock stops, suddenly. “John could tell you. Where’s John?” He looks around wildly, but John is nowhere to be seen. “Where did you take him? Was he wounded? We had no part in the attack, I’m telling you!”

“And under the influence of alcohol, in front of witnesses?” Lestrade snaps, and all traces of that brief uncertainty ebbs away, to Sherlock’s dismay. “We can’t argue with a whole group of people who say they saw and experienced you attacking them, people of different backgrounds who are in no way linked to one another who saw you kill that man!”

It’s like someone’s yanked a carpet from under him; Sherlock feels disoriented. “I was _not_ drunk,” he insists, certain, holding on to that statement and his claim of innocence, but Sherlock can feel his argument crumbling even though he knows, knows just _how_ ridiculous this entire situation is, how could _anyone,_ let alone a bunch of people construe that it was him who attacked them— “Just... witnesses can be mistaken, surely, _get some footage, Lestrade!”_

__

He ends his last words on a shout in his frustration, moving up to Lestrade and flashing steely eyes at him. Lestrade is unmoved, but the disappointment in his eyes seem heavier shadows than before. He waves dismissively at Sherlock, and turns away from him. “Take this man away,” Lestrade says, not looking at Sherlock as two other policemen grab him and proceed to drag him away from the scene. “I expected better of you, Sherlock. Not... Not this.”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock calls fiercely, willing the man with his back turned to him to look at him, to listen to him, to stop this ridiculous folly. “Lestrade, will you just _listen_?”

“No,” Mycroft’s voice cuts the air like ice, and for once, Sherlock’s actually glad to hear his brother speak up in a situation like this. “I volunteer to take him into custody.”

Sherlock feels his confidence sink — Mycroft has, as Sherlock will grudgingly admit, always had an eye for the details, and if _he_ cannot see it — 

Lestrade whirls around. “You have _got_ to be joking,” he bites. “You’re his _brother_. You expect me to trust you with a suspect?”

“Remember who I am,” Mycroft says coldly with all the disdain he can muster, and for a moment, Sherlock can almost visualise his brother sitting at the top of a cruel pyramid — working the Secret Service and a hundred other departments besides like marionettes. “I _will_ take him.” His voice brooks no argument, but Lestrade bristles, stepping forward.

They square off, Mycroft and Lestrade, like two lions in a ring, glaring at each other. Sherlock wants to sock them both in the jaw because he has no patience for this completely gratuitous competition to see who’s actually got the upper hand and all that nonsense; he needs to leave and get to the bottom of this as quickly as he can, preferably _sans_ the troublesome handcuffs.

Lestrade eventually steps away, clearly disliking it even as he grudgingly says, “Fine. If anything happens, it’s your jurisdiction, and I’ll hold _you_ accountable.”

Mycroft just sneers, narrowing his eyebrows at Lestrade, who huffs and walks away. He tilts his head at Sherlock then and points a thumb at the car he’d come in, and Sherlock ignores the sudden vertigo he feels even as he steps towards it, chains clinking gently behind him; it’s as if he’s young all over again, and Mycroft is pulling him from the principal’s office or something. Someone else might’ve found it mortifying, but Sherlock refuses to be cowed over something he knows he didn’t do.

“You didn’t do it,” Mycroft says calmly as the driver starts the car and they move along at a slow pace on the roads. He looks a shade troubled, expression cracking through the mask.

Sherlock snorts, the observation so dull. Ordinary. “You don’t say,” he replies dryly. “And yet here I am, cuffed. There are witnesses, apparently — I wasn’t _in_ the hall when the gun went off, didn’t have a gun in the first place, and I can’t think of anyone who particularly wants to set me up — Who would have the resources, who would go to this trouble to—”

Mycroft just looks at him. “I can think of someone.”

He stills before it clicks into place and he exhales, feeling pieces of the disjointed puzzle fall into certain order again. It’s still shaky, but: “Moriarty?”

“I don’t think he’d end this game he’s just started so quickly.” Mycroft says seriously, stretching out at the back of his car. 

Again with that. “A game,” Sherlock repeats.

“Well. It’s not much of a game anymore, is it?” Mycroft draws a glass of wine from a bottle of Romanée-conti he has stashed behind the seat, takes a sip without so much as offering Sherlock any. Well, wine’s not really his cup of tea, at any rate. “If he’s framed you for murder, it’s hardly a _game_ anymore.”

“His idea of a game is... different.” Sherlock remembers bombs, remembers the choked off voice of a withering old woman, remembers a closer brush to death than most. “Well, he’ll be waiting for my escape.” His lips curl. “We’ll see how he likes... surprises, if you will.”

Mycroft tips his glass at Sherlock. “Loath as I am to admit it, you’re the only one who could take his queen piece down.” He takes a contemplative sip, and makes a hum of approval. His eyes are appraising over the rim of his glass. “I do not think I have to remind you how it is absolutely essential for you to see this through. Failure is not an option.”

“It never was.” Sherlock straightens, understanding it perfectly. He shakes his hands meaningfully.

Mycroft slips a key out of his sleeve and unlocks his handcuffs quietly. Rubbing his wrists gingerly, Sherlock shoots Mycroft a disbelieving look, but it is hardly surprising. “A handcuff key, naturally,” he mutters sardonically.

“Be prepared for anything.” Mycroft says, tossing Sherlock’s phone at him. “Now, I cannot help you directly beyond this small gesture, but.” His eyes flick to the pocket behind the seat that’s right in front of Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn’t miss the noticeable bump there. Shaped like a gun, innocently pressed against the seat. “I should warn you,” Mycroft seems to enunciate carefully, but his amused gaze betrays the words coming out of his mouth.

“There are things you shouldn’t do, Sherlock, under _any_ circumstances. Do not pull any weapons on them, for the love of God, will you? Just put everything away, give it up, follow them along like a good boy. Are you listening to me, Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock murmurs, his own smile widening to match Mycroft’s as he gently pulls the gun out, rolling the weight about in his palms. “I’m listening.”

Just seconds later, their car screeches to a halt, crashing into a pole. The door creaks open; the terrified chauffeur stumbles out of the front seat with his hands in the air, shaking as Sherlock aims his gun at him, slowly backing away from the car.

“Turn around,” Sherlock says icily, and the chauffeur complies with a whimper. Mycroft plays along rather convincingly, looking for all the world as if he is shaking in his fine shoes, but his steady grip on his wine glass betrays him. When he catches Sherlock looking at him, he smirks and tilts his glass at him again in a salute.

_I owe you._

__

Moriarty’s voice comes to him unbidden, cruel and sly. He shoves it away; turns around and runs.

+

“He is. Not. Here.” John snaps out at the coppers crawling the flat, his hands curling into fists, nails digging deep into the skin of his palms. “And there is nothing for you to ‘find’ or ‘discover’ because Sherlock is _innocent_!”

Lestrade simply looks at him coolly from where he’s leaning against the wall, now all patched up from the last time Sherlock decided to go crazy with the bullets. His mouth is set in a hard line, and his expression is grim. “John, we have to be thorough. You know I don’t want to believe that Sherlock did... what he did, but with that many witnesses— we’ve been handed a murder inquiry. We’ll just check for any evidence at all, _anything_ that might indicate why he would’ve attacked Zalman Stein like that. We’ll come to the conclusion of whether he’s innocent f he shows up for a trial.”

“ _When_ he shows up. Look, I’m the one who reads the papers between the two of us in this flat and even I don’t know whom you’re talking about!”

“Don’t be so sure yet. Sherlock might prove to be adept at keeping secrets. Even from you.” Lestrade turns to his team. “What’ve you lot found?”

“Just the usual... experiments and all that. We now have a really dodgy-looking ear in the refrigerator that seems to be immersed in... some kind of _green_ liquid, but I don’t want to think about it. Otherwise, we don’t really have anything incriminating, sir.” Donovan pipes up from the back, peeling off her gloves. “Unfortunately,” she adds, shooting John a dark look.

John shoots her one right back, and bares his teeth at Anderson when the other man glowers at him from behind Donovan. He addresses Lestrade again. “Now will you leave?”

“This isn’t over, John,” Lestrade says reluctantly, motioning for his team to shuffle out of 221B. “This isn’t the end of it, and I intend to get to the bottom of this. I don’t want Sherlock to be guilty, but evidence is evidence.”

“You didn’t find anything!” John’s retort is sharp and cutting, a tone of finality in his voice. “And stop being a pulp fiction cliché,” he adds tiredly. “You’re not cut out for it.”

Lestrade shakes his head and ignores John’s latter comment. “If you know more than you let on,” he begins threateningly. “If you’re in any way orchestrating some kind of conspiracy with Sherlock, there will be hell to pay.” He steps out of the flat and pulls the edge of his coat on.

Lestrade gets into his car, and John’s breathing heavily after that from all his yelling. He winces as his head throbs, pressing a palm to his bandaged forehead. “Well, that really did a number on me,” he mutters to himself. “Hopefully Sherlock’s better off, bloody coppers after hi—”

“I’m not doing too badly, but thank you for your concern.”

John all but jumps out of his skin. “Sherlock!”

“I think that went rather well, don’t you think?” Sherlock quickly steps around John, pulling off his scarf in a swift, familiar movement as he gently nudges his way into the entrance of the flat. “Come on, best we get in before anyone else sees us.”

“Sees you, you mean?” But John acquiesces anyway, and then they’re trudging up the stairs. Recovering from his shock, John glares up at Sherlock ahead of him. He’s been doing a lot of glaring tonight; it’s becoming quite painful for his eyes.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, coming back here?” John demands. “You’re a suspected murderer, you should be in custody! Which reminds me, _why_ are you even a suspected murderer? I was there, but apparently no one believes me over the hoard of witnesses they’ve gathered! Well, not that I _want_ you to be in custody, you understand, but they had you and everything and I wasn’t allowed to see you and I was worried, you great _sod_ —”

Sherlock pats him companionably while John rants and gesticulates wildly, and when he pauses for breath, he pulls John in for a quick embrace. “I’m glad to see you, John,” Sherlock says, leaning against his weight and hooking an arm around John’s shoulders. “It’s been rather inconvenient to get away and all, but it really is good to see you.”

“You always interrupt me.” Still, John smiles in relief at that, and pats Sherlock’s back too, strangely warm inside. “Yes. It’s good to have you back, but I would really like some explanation as to what’s going on and an update from you, because Lestrade didn’t give me anything of merit before he stormed in and turned the flat inside out looking for evidence against you.”

Sherlock throws his hands up. “I don’t even know what kind of evidence he’d be looking for. Meticulous notes? Something in my little pink diary saying I’d been planning to murder this man I hadn’t been _aware_ of until the ball?” He scoffs. “Besides, if I were to take on the role of a criminal mastermind, I’d hardly leave things like that lying around. Amateurs...”

John makes a face as he rights a table back in place. “You’re not going to win any points towards your innocence like that.”

“What? You’re the only one I happen to be talking to at this very moment.” Sherlock sighs. “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to make sure you were safe and that nothing had happened to you.”

“Very touching.” John grins. “I can handle myself, don’t you worry about that. ”

“That’s true, I agree.” Sherlock laughs, and then sobers as he sits down, gesturing for John to do the same. He tents his hands, and begins to speak. “It’s not possible for me to have done that,” he says quietly. “Even if you take the influence of alcohol or drugs into consideration. Nothing makes sense, and I of all people would know whether I attacked someone like that. I’ve been framed, and I think Moriarty’s behind this.”

John groans and buries his face in his hands. “Of course. Who else.”

“The evidence and the witnesses seem to point towards me, though.” Sherlock holds up his fingers, ticking them off as he continues talking. “The gun was planted tight in my hand, free from all fingerprints but mine. The witnesses all claim to have seen me fire it, and that I shot this Zalman Stein, a Jewish politician, after that. They even explained my unconsciousness by saying a member of their merry posse took me out with a chair after I’d gone berserk in the hall.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It really is, but it’s apparently enough to consider me guilty.”

John sighs. “What can we do about it, then? I highly doubt the Yard will find any evidence in your favour at this rate, not without your help at least. And they’re out to get you; Moriarty and the police both. It’s madness.”

“I am inclined to agree with you,” Sherlock says dryly, standing up, putting on his coat and tying his scarf on again. “I’ll find a way.”

“Where will you be going, Sherlock?” John asks, standing up too to face him. “It’s too dangerous for you out there right now.”

“You just stay put, John. It’ll be fine,” Sherlock says. Then, his mouth curves into a smile. “I’m going to find a woman.”

“A woman?” He asks, incredulous.

Sherlock smirks. “ _The_ woman.”

John rolls his eyes heavenward. “God help me. Nothing good comes from talking to her, you know that! After all that’s happened.”

“Why, John, could you possibly be jealous?” Sherlock quips good-naturedly, then ducks out of the apartment as John turns an interesting shade of red, sputters, and steps outside to curse him. Interestingly, John doesnt comment on it. “I’ll send her your love, then!”

+

_L'Autre Pied, 8pm. About time, don’t you think? A work-free date - just a lady and her gentleman, Mr. Holmes. x_

__

Sherlock looks up from his cell phone just as the maître d' ushers Irene in, all glamorous furs and sinful silk. “Well, there you are.”

“You are surprisingly punctual,” Irene declares, her voice low and husky as she sashays over to Sherlock, trailing a hand up his arm. He casually leans away from her and sits back in his chair, gesturing for her to do the same. “...but you’re not exactly the personification of chivalry, are you, Mr. Holmes?” she continues, sitting herself down.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock says, not very sorry at all. He puts his menu down, raises his eyebrows and puts on his most winning smile. “What do you have in mind for dinner tonight?”

Irene returns his smile, dusky makeup painting an array of colours on her exquisite face. She turns a graceful hand to the maître d'. “Oh, he knows what I like,” she purrs, echoing her words from so long ago. “Don’t you, Nicholas?”

“Certainly, Ms. Adler.”

“With that settled, do you have any special requests? They make a wonderful poached megrim sole.” Irene takes off her furs and drapes them about the edges of her chairs, eyes never leaving his.

“As the lady recommends,” Sherlock replies, and sits back again when the maître d' leaves them. “Thank you for coming.”

“You finally agreed to having dinner with me after what feels like hundreds of text messages,” Irene says, affecting a teasingly wounded tone. “A girl might feel pained, rejected almost, but I for one simply couldn’t resist.”

Sherlock has to laugh at that. “I’m sure few men and women have resisted you in your life, Irene Adler.”

“That much is true,” she concedes with a smile. “Now, how have you been? Living life as a fugitive must be awfully interesting.”

“I’m not going to even bother asking how you know that.”

“I have my wily ways, as you’re very well aware.”

They talk quietly for a while, the lights warm and soft around them, Irene flirting at him playfully and Sherlock dancing around her words as he always does, but she’s used to it by now. Still, she’s persistent and always finds him entertaining, and Sherlock finds her intriguing company in turn. Their food arrives, and it is as delicious as she’d so confidently promised.

“So I’m certain you sought me out for a different perspective on this matter,” Irene murmurs, putting her cutlery down delicately and dabbing at her lips with her napkin, leaving teasing prints of red on the cloth. “Or am I wrong?”

“Not particularly,” Sherlock mutters a little grudgingly, but Irene has always been sharp. “But I do need some... consultation on this.”

“But,” She mimics his tone, and laughs. “It looks like it’ll be fun. Sign me up. Irene Adler, a detective’s assistant! Nice ring to it, hmm? Oh, hold on. How about... The Detective Dominatrix. Catchy.”

“No.” His voice is reproachful, but she is actually right; it is catchy.

“Or,” she stops, and seems to contemplate something for a moment. “Or that could be you. You’d look fantastic in leather, with your legs. John says you know how to handle a riding crop. Well, on corpses at least. Something you want to tell us about, Sherlock? Starts with necro and ends with philia, hmm?”

His mind goes blank for a moment. “John told you _what?!”_ Sherlock says, incredulous.

“Goodness, no.” Irene takes a delicate sip of her wine. “I just read his blog every day. I get direct updates on my phone, you know. Technology is a wonderful thing; it nets me information on you, a different source.”

She looks up at him then, eyes dark and sly beneath thick lashes. “That would be so titillating,” she says. “The Dom and his doctor, on his knees, at his mercy. I wonder how John _likes_ it.”

The images that flit across his mind briefly are vivid, obscene, and in Sherlock’s opinion, should be made illegal. He’s especially horrified by the fact that he _is_ finding them titillating, and then catches himself _considering_ it. He’s never been more grateful that Irene cannot actually see into his mind, even if she has an uncanny way of reading people. “How John likes anything is hardly any of your business.” He schools his features into an unrelenting, expressionless mask.

“Oh, did I touch a nerve there?” She feigns surprise.

Well, she is stretching Sherlock’s patience, if nothing else. He takes a deep breath. “We’re going off-topic.”

“Live a little, you square.” Irene scoffs. “Fine, since you’re such a stuffy old codger. Yes, I’ll help out with your investigation on the side. Do you have a plan of action yet?”

Sherlock hesitates. “I’m going to be doing some research next on Zalman Stein, the victim. I don’t think I’ve even seen him before.”

Irene raises an elegant eyebrow.

“You’ve dallied with Moriarty,” he replies defensively. “He’ll stop at nothing. He takes pride in this, in constructing a lie so outrageous and unbelievable when you take the context into consideration... and having everyone around me fall for it, having everyone believe it. He wants me to fall.”

“Why, you’re both proud men,” she declares softly. “It’s what proud men do, wanting other people to kneel at their feet, to accede to their greatness. You’re a little like that, yourself.”

Sherlock says nothing, lets his silence cut like a knife.

“Anyway,” Irene continues, after a moment. “Research? I suggest you start with the newspapers. Zalman’s all over them, they love his face.” She winks at him then, absolutely incorrigible. “Just like they loved yours.”

He frowns at her comment. “And what do _you_ know about him?” Sherlock counters.

A smile spreads on her face, knowing. “I know what he likes.”

+

Sherlock hunches over the newspapers, sifting through everything he found on the Tory politician, Zalman Stein. Irene wasn’t joking when they said the papers did love his face; Stein was a bit of a people-pleaser where politics and the public were concerned.

He’s actually surprised — and incensed — to discover that he recognises Stein’s face from the ball. Sherlock remembers bumping into him, moving around the thin man, his piercing gaze and his sharp, hooked nose. His expression when he’d locked his eyes on Sherlock back at the gala is nothing like what Sherlock is seeing in the papers now. All the photographs of him are smiling, showing him to be meek, almost.

There was nothing meek about his calculating and severe expression that night. It’s like Sherlock is looking at a completely different man.

Nothing adds up. Suspicion coils within him like a snake, distrustful and prepared to spring. The papers are loud with their rustles as he pushes more that he’s read aside, and he growls in frustration, tries to compose himself, mentally sorting through all his information.

Stein gets featured in the papers a lot, but he does get criticised by his opponents for his constant fence-sitting. The media and his supporters both adore him immensely, lauding him at every opportunity with written words of praise. He seems to have no skeletons in his closet to speak of, no involvement in any scandals. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the paper. “How dodgy.”

He does get the impression that Stein is capable, even if he seems to exude a kind of bumbling charm according to the papers. Sherlock doesn’t think someone who could look so cold and cutting is genuinely sunny. He thumbs a page, smooths his palm over it. There’s more to Zalman Stein than meets the eye, he decides. There must be.

After a while, a trend begins to emerge. The headlines and articles are full of proud words for Zalman Stein, MP, The People’s Man. There are critics, of course, but one journalist takes denunciation of him to a whole new level. His attacks on Stein in the papers are so severe it borders on theatrical, contradicting everyone else’s words viciously as his articles slam Stein for his apathy and indecision, accusing him of not focusing on issues that should matter, going so far as to accuse him of corruption and greed for power.

It’s strange, and Sherlock feels drawn to what he has to say on Stein. His words are harsh, yes, but almost unnecessarily so. He doesn’t have dirt on Stein, per se, but this Clement Lim fellow seems to have a lot to say on the matter.

A political journalist, with information on Stein, if the sheer number of articles he’s written that condemn Stein for his stance in Parliament are any indication. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he’d say this man had a fixation. Curiouser and curiouser.

Well, time to lay some of those curiosities to rest. Sherlock whips out his phone, squints at the computer screen for Clement’s details, and types in the number before he composes a text message.

_I have an enquiry about the late Zalman Stein. You seem to know far more than the average individual — terribly useful for research, if you would be so kind._

__

_Tea, 4pm, [location]?_

__

_SH_

__

It’s barely a few minutes before his phone buzzes, a single message blaring on his screen in reply from Clement:

_WHO ARE YOU?_

__

Strange, yes. Sherlock supposes that it must be a bit rude, signing off an introductory text with just his initials — it won’t do to simply assume everyone knows his name, especially not the non-clients of the general public.

_Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective — I believe you’ve already done an article on the_ _trial with James Moriarty._

__

_SH_

__

Again, within minutes:

_WHO ARE YOU?_

__

Sherlock sits back, leaning against his chair, making a face at his phone as he taps against it on the table. Automated responses? But what if they weren’t automated replies? He picks his phone up again, wondering if he should type out another message, but thinks better of it.

He gathers what little belongings he has, and strides out of the library, collars upturned to hopefully better conceal his face. Once he’s out in the sunlight and safely ensconced in the shadows behind a thick pillar, he dials the number.

“Who are you?” Clement asks in low, clipped tones when he answers Sherlock’s call almost immediately, an eerie echo of his text messages.

The man is used to being intimidating, Sherlock realises, but he’d be damned if some media hound would cow him. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and I would like to talk to you about Zalman Stein.” 

Sherlock thinks he can almost hear the man’s interest in what he has to say flaring to life. “Oh?”

“I require information on our illustrious People’s Man,” he says, as dryly as possible, trying to gauge Clement’s reaction. “I have entire bodies of witnesses claiming I murdered the man, and...” An idea strikes him, suddenly. “I’m also looking for a journalist who can cover my story from an unbiased angle, or at least one that’s not entirely in favour of Zalman Stein. Tell me, Lib Dem-leaning journalist, how fond are you of the peculiar, harrowing and absolutely traumatising thing we like to call the truth?”

There’s a pause, but Sherlock knows he’s got him. Hook, line and sinker.

“My home,” Clement says, finally, and he sounds almost hungry, now. Sherlock feels a little disappointed, given how the man’s articles were actually very eloquent and well thought-out; all journalists are the same, in the end. “4pm, as you said. Tea. We’ll have plenty to talk about, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’m sure we will,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes drifting to a crier in a corner, brandishing newspapers with Stein’s face over it, shouting, “People’s Man dead! Read all about it! Reichenbach hero, or felon?!”

He hangs up, and looks up at the sky. “Reichenbach felon,” he mutters darkly, and grits his teeth.

It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

Another text shows up on his phone screen — it's Irene. Her message is short, but flirtatious as always.

_The missus doesn't seem to be aware of Zalman's activities beyond the political landscape. He apparently enjoyed golf on the rare occasion he felt like a little bit of excitement._

He raises an eyebrow so high at the next few lines of text he worries it might actually disappear into his hairline:

 _She mentioned he did take a fair number of domestic trips around England, and that they were not necessarily for work. Not that she knew the details, of course. Speaking of details, Mrs. Stein really is quite the lovely thing. Now I can say with certainty that I know what the_ both _of them like. I’ll find out what you like one day, Mr. Holmes, you mark my words._

__

_xxx_

__

Well, some things never change. That’s a comfort, at least.

+

Clement lives in a small, posh flat in Canary Wharf, with an exceptionally gorgeous view of the river. Sherlock rolls his eyes as the journalist welcomes him inside to a subtly decorated flat, all sharp geometric lines and tasteful, expensive furniture. Old money, maybe?

The study that he is lead into reeks of acetone, for some reason, but Sherlock doesn’t think much of that as he seats himself in the chair across the desk, flitting his gaze over the numerous notebooks and papers sprawled out on the wood. There is no notable order or pattern to them, even if the use of a magpie seems to catch his attention for a short moment, a red letterhead on black paper. Odd, but largely irrelevant, so Sherlock dismisses it.

It seems that he takes packages often, from the scraps of paper and string, and he makes absent note to find out about those. One could never be too careful with the senders, not when you were trying to escape anyone — and _everyone_ ’s notice.

He takes a sip from the cup of tea that Clement offers him, a little stunned when he finds that it's actually really good tea. When he seeks the label out, however, it seems as though it has been removed, which he supposes is a must if one is to keep a tea like that secret. Not completely out of the ordinary, some do fancy their personal goods private. As if anticipating his comments and surprise, Clement shrugs and pours himself a cup. "I was a barista and café assistant during my university years. These things stick with you."

Irrelevant information, again, but Sherlock nods anyway. He gets to the point, lifting his cup in a gesture that's something like a mock toast. "On to what I came here for. Tell me about Zalman Stein."

Clement's laughter is a sharp bark, loud in the stillness of his pristine flat. "Eager. The man you killed, hey?" His eyes are dancing with delight, along with another darker shadow that implies he knows there's more to the situation at hand that Sherlock does. He imagines the situation that he is in, with an alleged murderer sitting in his flat, asking for information about his very own victim — but the condescension in his laugh seems to pique curiosity. Or it galls him, rather, as he leans forward.

"That I allegedly killed," Sherlock says calmly, not without a certain amount of stiffness. 

"Allegedly, of course," Clement continues smoothly. "Where would you like me to start?"

"You seem to have a better grasp and coverage of him compared to most. Anything interesting he's been involved in as of late? Perhaps involvement with unsavoury groups, political unrest in his party that others might not have gotten wind of, the like. Tell me about your articles, too, and why you seem to be so fixated on him whenever you tackle coverage of the political scene. You've a couple of articles in entertainment on that," He pauses, spotting one of the drafts on his desk with a familiar photograph. "Scarlett woman, and her music. But beyond that..." Sherlock fixes an intent gaze on him; Clement stares back, unruffled. He doesn't like to prompt people to talk too much about themselves - he's frankly not all that interested, most of the time - but they're more likely to slip and reveal useful information when they're feeling self-absorbed. It works for investigations, so he continues to do it.

"Hmm." Looking almost thoughtful, Clement fidgets at the frayed collar of his T-shirt - a Guevara print, of all things - and leans back. "I don't agree with him, as you've noticed." 

"You don't say." Sherlock feigns shock.

Clement smirks wryly at Sherlock's undisguised attempt at being subtle with his sarcasm. "There's nothing much to it. I don't like politicians that are wishy-washy. Stein is exactly that, pandering to the masses and Parliament and parroting what they want him to say, without actually getting anything done for the people or making any significant changes to impact the political game in London's arena."

Snorting, Sherlock waves a hand, disinterested. "Why him, specifically? And don't say something like 'just because'," he adds, after a beat, eyes narrowing. "You're someone who makes calculated decisions when you do something, it's definitely not from a whim."

"Doesn't take a genius to observe that really, Mr. Holmes," Clement says quietly, but that's an acknowledgment of Sherlock's remark on his characteristics. He seems to pause for a long moment before he speaks again, as if debating his words, or if he should tell Sherlock at all. Almost like he is waiting for instructions, honestly, and it seems to be a good three minutes before he parts his lips again. "I have my reasons." He's smiling now. "Shall I just say it's to highlight Stein in the papers the way we want him to be highlighted? I don't want to reveal too much, that'll spoil the game for our other invested players."

A warning bell begins to toll in the fading distance. "You're a player, too," he says, things becoming clearer to him by the minute. "We? So you're highlighting him in the media in a certain way to... _distract_ the others." Clement doesn't nod, shake his head or even voice where he stands on that statement, but Sherlock takes it as obvious assent. "What game are we playing? More importantly,” he adds as an afterthought. “What use has he for a piece like you...?”

"The best kind, Mr. Holmes." Clement's expression reveals nothing. "I covered one of the articles about, ah, Stein's untimely death at your hands. There were so many witnesses, each more eager to share the horror they'd seen than the last. You were brutal."

"I didn't kill him."

"That's not what my sources said." Clement smiles, and leaves it at that.

+

The door’s slightly ajar and their new ‘Welcome’ mat askew on the flooring when he finally arrives. “What on earth are you even doing here?” He hears John yell from inside. “If you’re just going to be contrary and—”

He winces, internally. Knowing Irene, she’d probably riled John up just because she felt like it. He just doesn’t know what their current argument is about.

“You’re overthinking it.” Her voice is smooth, amused. Then, it turns sly. “Are you only so defensive because you have something to hide, doctor?”

“Get out,” John says, after a moment’s pause. It’s strained, it’s tired, it’s impatient. “I really can’t deal with you right now. Please leave.”

“I do believe Sherlock’s arriving soon.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just go.”

He’s heard enough, really. Eavesdropped, at least. He slips in, closing the door behind him to John’s surprise and Irene’s knowing grin. “What did I miss?” he asks, casually.

They answer him at the same time. John huffs and says, “Nothing,” the same time Irene replies, “Interesting developments.”

John narrows his eyes at Irene, who addresses his suspicious glance with a catlike smile and raised eyebrows, as if daring him to take their conversation further.

Sherlock clears his throat and doesn’t look at either of them. “Did you get anything valuable on Zalman from his wife and family?”

Irene sits and crosses her legs daintily. She waggles her eyebrows suggestively at Sherlock’s acknowledgment, however brief, of the nature of her extended conversation with Mrs. Stein. “Not really, no. Nothing really stood out. But worthy of note is what I told you... that she mentioned that he used to take domestic trips around England.” She taps out a little rhythm on the edge of the small table, and hums thoughtfully. “If not for work, then what, Mr. Holmes?”

"What indeed," Sherlock murmurs, thumbing the screen of his phone, thinking of his conversation with Clement.

As if on cue, Mycroft sends him a text — Lord, he must be at the dentist, why else would be bother with—

“John,” he says, cutting through Irene’s new and long-suffering spiel about how Stein’s wife hasn’t had her wardrobe updated in years, and giving his partner a pointed look.

As if by instinct, John stands and walks over to see with a practiced speed and precision, leaning to get a better look at Sherlock’s screen. His eyes narrow as he reads, and he looks up at the detective with a frown on his face in a lack of understanding. Before he can ask what it means, however, Sherlock is sliding his scarf on, his arms in his coat as he tugs the material onto his shoulders. 

“Sherlock!” John groans, following after, Sherlock’s phone in hand. “Where are you going?”

“To the reporter — he’s in trouble. I’m not exactly sure how, but it might be a clue,” Sherlock says hurriedly, already halfway down the stairs as he stops to talk to John. There is the briefest hesitation from John before he too grabs his coat, following him down. Sherlock suppresses the urge to grin, the loyalty of his friend overshadowing the alert that Mycroft has sent him.

They won’t have much time before it expires, however, and Sherlock isn’t about to risk it. Before they leave, they hear the call of a disgruntled Irene up in the flat, complaining about the lack of gentlemanliness. Sherlock makes a note to buy her flowers on his way back.

_The pipe’s been lit. MH_

__

+

“Oh,” John says softly, looking at the body in front of them. Clement looks to have been in a state of surprise before he died, his eyes slightly wide and mouth agape. Sherlock makes a frustrated hissing sound and throws up his hands, stepping  away from the corpse to take in what’s around them, papers that had fallen to the floor, books open and scattered all over.

Shaking his head, John puts on a pair of gloves and kneels down. Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, almost tangibly _sensing_ the moment John slides into a deeper moment of concentration, piecing what he can source from his examination together.

It’s quite fascinating to watch.

“Strangulation.” The word lingers like John’s eyes on the victim’s neck. “No visible marks or bruising, or even signs of a struggle, but from what I can ascertain...”

Sherlock furrows his brow and moves closer, skimming over Clement for clues, and sinks down next to John as well. He lifts Clement’s left hand gently, inspecting the pipe there. It clicks, then.

“No,” He says, sure, now that he’d identified what he was looking for and _found_ it. “It’s poison.”

John blinks at him. “All signs point to... you know what, just go with it.” He stands up and frowns at Sherlock, but the edge of his lips are twitching, a tell-tale sign that John’s itching to smile, but won’t. Sherlock knows him too well by now, and he smirks at John in turn even when John huffs, “Tell me why it’s poison.”

Sherlock pushes down the almost-instinctive reaction of ‘It’s quite obvious, John,’ but he kneels patiently beside the body, picking the pipe up and handing it to the doctor. “It seems an analysis of tobacco ash might have been valid after all,” he says almost proudly, and there is a glint in his eyes as he speaks.

John frowns and doesn’t comment on how no-one reads Sherlock’s website, instead inspecting the piece of ‘evidence’ in his hands. It’s a long while before he speaks again, and he holds it out for Sherlock to take. “Yeah, Sherlock, but _what_ am I looking for?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes it back, exposing the bowl of the pipe more clearly in the light. “Look, John.”

He peers over, and then shakes his head. “I don’t see it—”

“It’s empty,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Well, perhaps not empty, but absolutely no residue of _tobacco_ ash.”

John doesn’t quite believe him. How can he? It’s nothing but ash in a pipe, and it isn’t his business what the reporter has decided to smoke for the afternoon. But Sherlock is already wiping his finger on the mouth, carefully sniffing it, trying to identify something that John knows on instinct that he should not hope to understand. Instead, he shuts his mouth before he can retort, sitting back on his ankles. “What’ve you made of it, then?”

Sherlock rubs his fingers together as John speaks. “Well, that we’ve got some requirements of a lab... Probably St. Bart’s, I can’t imagine anywhere else would let me hire one at the moment.”

He sighs in exasperation. “I meant the murder, Sherlock. Murder _er,_ if you can, but I wouldn’t blame you based on the lack of evidence.”

“Murderer is about 1.8 metres tall, but that’s all I’ve managed to gather as of yet. The footprint isn’t so clear, but definitely laid out very nicely for a forensic team. Even Anderson could probably find it, it’s too clear on the ground. It would be accurate to assume that they were gloved at the point of the kill, when you observe the lack of fingerprints,” Sherlock immediately responds without waiting for John to finish his sentence. 

Ordinarily, he would have minded, but he doesn’t stop Sherlock as he continues to speak. “I’d assume that a good knowledge of criminal evidence and the right connections to attain poison or a firearm at any point might be in order.”

John raises an eyebrow, starting to connect some dots in his mind, an odd shape forming that simply cannot be true. “You mean via... a Molly, or a Mycroft-like figure?”

Sherlock raises a finger and his eyes brighten as he taps in the air, like he’s got a map in front of his eyes. “Yes, yes! Exactly. Someone like Lestrade on their side, too.”

“And that doesn’t sound familiar to you?” John snarks at him. 

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and then he meets John’s eyes steadily, completely unfazed. “Of course it does.”

“It almost sounds like you’re describing yourself, in case you don’t see what I’m getting at.”

“I’m very aware of that,” Sherlock says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but his voice is terse. “That rather is the _point_ of the game, John. The seed of doubt.”

“Pardon?”

Sighing, Sherlock holds the pipe up to the daylight streaming in from the window. “If I’m describing myself, that means whoever _did_ actually commit this crime has succeeded in painting me as the go-to choice for the likeliest criminal linked to this murder, and the one before that.” The pipe is an exquisite thing, but it’s just too bad it’s got poison all over it now. “Well done, I say.” He remarks dryly.

“But who’d want to do that?” John sounds confused.

“What, anything to destroy my name? Who do you think?”

It dawns on him, slow but sure. “Moriarty.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock puts the pipe down. The sparse whiteness of Clement’s apartment is getting to him, a clinical environment that doesn’t feel quite right. “I’m sure he’s having a ball.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John groans, and Sherlock reluctantly shifts his attention back to his flatmate as he continues to speak. “Slow down a minute. Moriarty’s not exactly a walk in the park.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and he moves through the flat, picking through the things he had already seen — the documents still in place, the clock on the wall (and when had it spoilt?), right down to the mobile phone on the desk.

He stops, suddenly.

“Sherlock?” John asks, his tone slightly off as Sherlock moves away, but the detective ignores him in favour of—

The phone. Sherlock crosses the flat and snatches it off the table, making sure that his gloves are intact when he picks it up. Not too old, recently bought but well used — the glass is scratched at the corners, and the protector’s oily fingerprints all but inform him of the password as he slides the virtual lock open. 

(Absently, he wonders if it is too well set-up, that the fingerprints have been layered on in such a specific manner. He dismisses that, though, it isn’t like he denies that Moriarty would lay an obvious clue like that in a game of wit like this to make things interesting.)

He searches it for the previous messages, finding nothing but work correspondence, but he searches through those in the sent folder, looking for it, scrolling quickly, ignoring John’s complaints and insistence in the background.

Finally, he finds the one he is looking for, the one from almost two weeks ago now  — perhaps it is an automated message, but it’s still rather worth a shot. John sighs loudly and comes to stand beside Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. “And what are we looking for?”

“A text,” Sherlock says slowly, and he finally finds it — not quite the exact one he is looking for, but it certainly contains the same words.

Aha.

“A text? Who from?” John presses, and Sherlock shoots him a look that’s met with nothing but firmness from his doctor. 

“Not from,” he tries to say patiently. “To.” He turns the phone, showing it to him. “He sent me this, two weeks back. Seems like I’m not the only one.”

John takes it from him, and Sherlock runs a frustrated hand through his hair as he begins to pace. “What would it be, there’s a pattern, isn’t there? The men I’ve been encountering, a breadcrumb trail laid out, like a bird being lead to the slaughter house, or into captivity...”

The clues are too clean, and they’re pointing straight at him without any doubt at all. While it wouldn’t be a problem for any member of Lestrade’s team — they had only been too ready to believe that Sherlock had been setting the crimes up in his early career, hadn’t he? 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is suddenly concerned, and Sherlock looks up. There seems to be a tension that requests Sherlock’s urgency, and John is at his side now. 

“What?”

“You are,” John says, showing him the text again.

“I am what?” Sherlock frowns, slightly thrown.

“The only one,” he holds it up, pressing a few keys, showing him the text again. 

_To: Alice_

__

_WHO ARE YOU?_

__

“ _Alice_ , John.” 

“It’s your number, isn’t it?” He says tiredly, pulling it back for a quick moment before he turned the screen around again. “You’re Alice. Of all nicknames... Some kind of mistake, it’s possible?”

Sherlock gives him a look, and John sighs heavily as he tries to search through the contacts again, searching for any kind of clue that he can find. There shouldn’t be a pattern to that, unless...

Before he can conclude, however, his own phone buzzes and Sherlock picks it out of his pocket. 

_Come and play, Alice. Tea Party’s starting without you._

__

_CC_

__

He doesn’t understand, but Sherlock will not admit that out loud, trailing his fingers along the covers of the books instead. Fishing the pipe off the floor, he turns it in his hands. “Pipe... What does it even refer to?” He thinks aloud, pacing a bit faster. “And ‘who are you’, too,” he says, steepling his fingers as he paces, trying to piece it together, quiet but steady.

“Got a bit of an obsession,” John observes absently, flipping through his notebook, fingering drawings and notes made. “Something like, hang on. What’s that Caterpillar bloke from?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock turns around, his thoughts interrupted as another text comes in, right on cue. It occurs to him that he should look for the cameras that are watching him, footage that could be used in a trial, but the text pulls a realisation from him.

_The Hatter waits._

__

_CC_

__

“—Sherlock, are you listening to me?” John comes up to him, waving his hand around. His brow is still slightly furrowed, and Sherlock blinks at him stupidly for a long moment before any process flits through his mind. 

A pipe, the text, Hatter. Tea Party. They’re all familiar, like the words of a children’s story, one he had heard before, and suddenly it falls into place with a resounding click in his mind —  because _every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain,_ and Moriarty’s game is most definitely in motion. Before he thinks about it, Sherlock is running his finger along the spines of the books, absolutely sure that there is one there - because there couldn’t be a lack of, not if the puzzle was true. 

John seems to let out a huff before he moves to Sherlock’s side, crouching beside him to stare at the shelf. “And what are we looking for _now_?”

“This,” Sherlock says with triumph, tugging it off the shelf, holding it in his arms. _Through the Looking Glass, and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_. He hands it over to John with a huge grin on his face. “Moriarty’s fairytale, this is the _game_.”

“It’s a children’s book,” John frowns. “Well. Not quite, but you know what I mean.”

“Figures it would be,” Sherlock says callously, standing to look around the room. “What did you say he was, The Caterpillar? He’s, ah, the second...”

“I don’t follow,” John says slowly.

“Of course you don’t,” Sherlock says, and then he pauses. “No, it’s not quite an ‘of course’, but it’s an Alice sequence. And if that is the case, then... an organisation of some sort?”

“I just need the simple facts,” John tries to get Sherlock’s attention before he goes off on his own tangent. “Summarise. Skip the details, for the love of my sanity.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say that details make the case, but he chooses wisely to suppress it at a look from John. “The Tea Party. Mad Tea Party,” he repeats, muttering to himself, handing the phone over for John to see. “And The Hatter— _oh!”_

His eyes widen. “John, this is _fantastic_. The Hatter’s going to die!”

+

“We are unable to comment on that right now,” Lestrade says tightly to a reporter asking about their efforts in apprehending Sherlock on the television. The voice is almost tinny and unrecognisable, coming from the black box in the diner just over the patrons’ heads in the corner, but the thinly-veiled exasperation and agitated hand gestures is all classic Lestrade even as Donovan smiles tiredly at the camera and yanks the microphone over to her side to continue answering questions on behalf of her superior.

Sherlock sighs and pulls his scarf up higher around his neck, tries not to think about how ridiculous the fedora looks on him. John had insisted it was probably necessary to at least try and be more discreet in public, and that some attempt at blending in with the crowd was better than none.

Irene had simply laughed, and said that she still preferred the deerstalker.

"The suspect was identified by the victim’s neighbours as being the only visitor to his apartment within days of the attack." John makes a disbelieving noise as he reads aloud from the paper. "Holmes has not been seen since. Recently uncovered evidence has hinted at a connection - and scandal - between the suspect and his two victims in relation to a criminal circle involved with the distribution of illegal substances."

Sherlock takes another sip of his tea, saying nothing. Holding the black sheet of paper in his hands, he stares at the emblem just a bit closer now. It looks too familiar, but Sherlock hasn’t managed to find it just yet in his mind palace. Especially not with the buzz of the telly, which John insists on watching for news on Sherlock’s investigation.

John doesn't slam the newspaper down on the shaky little table, but it's a near thing from how his hand trembles. "This is outrageous," John hisses. "I was there with you, you have an alibi-"

"Do I?" Sherlock interrupts. John stares at him, dumbfounded. "You were there when we found the body, but we weren't together all the time before that. That's hardly convincing."

Irene sighs, face hidden beneath the sheer veil she's got on, an impulsive decision she'd made on a whim to match Sherlock's not-so-mysterious disguise. "They wouldn't believe you anyway," she says, trailing a delicate finger down her latte glass. "You're a close friend of Sherlock's, and at the rate they're going, they might rein you in as an accomplice as well. Are you thinking clearly, Dr. Watson?"

Spluttering, John raises his hands in frustration before digging his fingers into the edges of their table. "We can't just do nothing!"

"Inaction is also a kind of action." Sherlock looks up again at the television, where Lestrade's resorted to rolling his eyes. Hardly something befitting the Chief Inspector. He smiles briefly, and turns back to John. "We've got some leads. Things aren't too bad."

"Says the fugitive."

"It helps to stay positive," Irene drawls. "You're so... tightly wound, John. It is entirely possible that you're more worked up about this than Sherlock is... I recommend some R&R, if you know what I mean."

"Not the time." John grits his teeth.

Sherlock glances briefly between them and suppresses his own urge to roll his eyes ala Lestrade. "The Hatter is next. There is no way the Hatter's going to die before I approach him or her," he chuckles briefly, "But the game will only resume once I discover just who the Hatter is. And I will."

He's only slightly surprised at how petulant he sounds; it's been an exhausting and harrowing few days, with him hiding everywhere from parks to cheap motels. They're all silent, a huddled group of three in their little corner, keeping to themselves and their drinks on a quiet weekday afternoon.

"More research?" John comments wryly, after a while.

"More research." Sherlock agrees.

+

"What _are_ all these obscure references to Alice in Wonderland?" John exclaims loudly, putting some of the papers they'd ‘borrowed’ on the other side of the table. Sherlock shares his sentiments, though a part of him is grudgingly intrigued with how they've tied the elements of the story to the mapping system and organisation of a drug circle, of all things.

He takes out his phone again, throws it in the air for a brief twirl before he catches it and taps out a number he'd found from Clement's documents. Clement's phone had been completely wiped of data; the killer - Moriarty's puppet, whoever he was - had not taken any chances. Nothing valuable, except another text to a member of sorts. The question was, essentially, who ‘CC’ was, since it hadn’t been as clear as the notes that had proven Stein’s position within the circle. Sherlock, however, hadn’t been able to place him in the web with a name. 

As he sits drumming his fingers on the table, the phone rings. Caterpillar, and the initials match his brother’s in the Caller ID. It wouldn’t be completely impossible, but Sherlock is wary when he answers the phone. “Hello?”

“Alice,” she greets with the hint of a purr in her voice. “Or, that’s what Clement called you, Mr. Holmes. Good afternoon.”

He waits for a while. A friend, or a colleague? Obviously someone close, but it didn’t seem like a threat in her voice. Simply interest, and Sherlock had caught it. “Indeed, good afternoon. And who is this?”

“No one of great importance. I simply heard you were looking for some information on Wonderland, boy.” The woman laughs, a smoky sound. “I might have just the details for you.”

“Who is this?” He repeats firmly, wary. Of course he is.

“I say you don’t actually care, but they call me the March Hare,” she says, simply. 

He sits up, alert. "By...March Hare, you mean you're one of the ensemble, of course."

"Maybe." Her voice has a musical lilt to it as she laughs again. A singer? Musician? "What do you say?"

Sherlock finds himself unable to say no, sitting forward and demanding information over the phone. However, it seems that the Hare is bent on seeing him face-to-face, and Sherlock resolves to find himself an inconspicuous place that will not attract the others in their circle of friends. They arrange a meeting, and then he's rushing out the door, his scarf trailing out behind him in the cold afternoon wind.

Absently, he wonders if this will break the pattern — if he sees the Hare before the Hatter, will she perhaps be the next victim? How were they chosen, anyway? The owing of a favour, or the volunteering of those who had nothing left to live for? He taps a rhythm into the door of the taxi as he thinks, and then he remembers if the March Hare is going to die, too, by poison, he should be aware of exactly what it is. So that he can track it.

He fingers a vial of stolen evidence in his pocket, and reroutes his taxi toward Smithfield. Pulling his phone out at that moment, he decides that perhaps he needs the help of a more dear friend, someone who may not be as willing as John to be on his side of the game. Molly had always been on the good side, and that had never changed as far as she was concerned.

He will have to convince her, as such. Excellent.

+

He can see that she’s just returned from a date, and that it went terribly. Sherlock doesn’t blame her for that, not when she had previously been used as a piece by a man far too complex; someone who had led her on and played her as thoroughly as he played the piano on his good days. Molly had been the perfect route into the hospital, and Sherlock resented him for it.

"I need to solve a case," he says without preamble in St. Bart's long and lonely corridors. He never really says things like that to anyone; Sherlock never really means it, always believing that he is self-sufficient, that he can get by. The strategy has always worked, and Sherlock isn’t about to shortchange himself no matter how desperate the situation. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard.”

But if anyone can help them in their investigation this way, help him, it's Molly. He doesn’t tell her that, even if it _will_ get her easily on his side. Molly pauses in her steps, and she considers him out of what he knows is the corner of her eye. “About what?” she asks, seemingly light.

“The murder of Zalman Stein,” he says, like it hasn’t the slightest bit of importance. “I suppose you may have been informed.”

She tightens a bit. Sherlock supposes that Molly has fallen victim already to the doubt. Even friends can be fazed by unsavoury news, no matter the source.  “A word or two, yes.”

He allows a bit of tension to flow out of his posture when he realises that she isn’t planning to run. She keeps steady, her back straight as she regards him. She’s cautious, but not wary; there’s trust in her eyes, and he’s suddenly fiercely relieved. “I need your help,” he says after a pause, feeling a little awkward. 

"What do you need from me?" she asks, her face silhouetted in the lab, eyes determined. Molly has always been ridiculously loyal, and Sherlock finds himself grateful for that as he stands before her. 

“An assistant,” he says quickly, raising an eyebrow as he tucked his hands behind his back. He pulls the vial out of his pocket and he holds it up to the light to show her the powder. “Evidence found on the body. I’d like to know what it is.”

Molly nods and beckons him over, unquestioning. For all that she is suspicious, she knows that he needs help, and she will not refuse him. She pulls on her gloves, and she extends a hand for the vial. “Give it here, please.”

Sherlock, for once, seats himself to watch her move around the lab. He cannot afford to be seen, curling up instead on the floor, well out of sight to anyone who would be passing through the corridors on a Sunday — not that he suspects anyone should be within this department of the research facility, not when he and Molly have both previously used this lab for the lack of visitors.

Molly isn’t as smooth with her fingers as Sherlock would like, but she does the job — smoother than John would, at any rate, and she works deftly with the equipment. He hasn’t always watched her even when she had offered her help in the past, but now that he has to busy his mind (Stein, Caterpillar, Clement, _Wonderland_ —), he trains his eyes on her work, quick and informed movements.

He closes his eyes and begins to drum a rhythm on his knee, which helps to soothe his thoughts for a moment as the confusion is obscured by the sensation. Bach, obviously, the same tune he had been playing when Moriarty had waltzed into his flat all those months ago. The irony doesn’t escape him, not at all.

It’s a while before Molly’s voice finally calls him back out, finding her frowning in front of his face.

“Sherlock? You sure you’re alright?” She asks tentatively.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock shakes his head out, focusing his attention back on her, the lines on her face and the worry in them. “I apologise. What was it?”

She gestures to the setup on the bench, and Sherlock hauls himself up to take a closer look. “I’m not so sure, given that we didn’t have much time,” Molly is saying, but Sherlock can see it clearly for himself in the dish. “It appears to be some kind of toxin...”

“Does it match up with the effects in the blood sample?” He queries, and she bristles halfway through her sentence, cut off. Sherlock waits patiently with his eyes trained on hers, however, and she resumes speaking rather slowly.

“Yes, there’s been a lysis of red blood cells,” she said slowly, looking over to the microscope. The slide’s there just where she’d left it, previously. “I’d assume it was a hemolysin of some sort, perhaps of some kind of plant? I don’t see where anyone would try to obtain it when you could just use—”

“What do you know of Alice in Wonderland, Molly?” Sherlock interrupts her again, and Molly falls silent with a slightly conflicted look, impatient and fondly exasperated both. Sherlock presses her for an answer, however, and she purses her lips as she pulls her gloves off.

“Nothing at all. It’s a children’s story, I’ve read it several times,” she says, shrugging as she throws them away, casual. “I was about to say, Sherlock—”

“Alice comes across... the caterpillar. Chapter five, and the Caterpillar sits on a mushroom,” Sherlock goes on, pacing around as he tries to connect it. “What does he say about it?”

Molly doesn’t comment or react to his interruption this time, staying quiet for a long while. And then, she ventures, “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock pauses, opens his mouth as he considers his answer, before he sighs and changes his mind. 

“Does it matter?” He asks her, rueful, running a hand through his hair as he pulls his phone out again. He is running out of time and fast, the Hare is waiting, Adler on her way to supervise the conversation. “Thank you for your assistance, Molly.”

He is pulling his coat on when her voice comes, tentative, closer because she’s shifted to stand next to him. “Sherlock, tell me what’s wrong. You know, you’re a bit like my dad—” 

“Nothing is _wrong,_ Molly,” Sherlock adjusts his scarf as he pulls the door open. 

Her hand closes on his arm, uncharacteristically daring as she holds him back. “He looked sad. When he thought no one could see him.” Sherlock inhales at that, and he tenses for a moment as he realises that she has probably perceived a flaw in his... charade, trying to smooth out that public image. Molly waits for a long time before she continues.

“You look sad. When you think _he_ can’t see you,” Molly says tightly. Sherlock pretends he isn’t affected, but he finds it just a tad bit stranger than he likes that Molly has managed to see things that should be unobservable. Possibly, he reasons, with a large margin or error, and that it is based more on intuition than any other evidence.

When John looks away from him, leaves him alone in their flat, Sherlock can feel his absence. It gnaws at him, and he contemplates with some wonder how he's gotten so used to being around another person, to actively seeking John's company. There's something else there, a kind of confused sense of longing; he misses John.

He does.

“You can see me,” he says as a way of reassuring her, to brush off her concern. He’s never really known how to throw people off with lines of dialogue like this, how to sidestep them just so. Emotions are not really his strong suit, as John tells him every so often.

Molly smiles, a forlorn curve. “I don’t count.”

He cocks his head to the side at the conviction in her voice, the way she meets his eyes with a bit of a resignation in her posture. “What I’m saying is, if you need anything... anything at all,” she says quietly, but she doesn’t shake as she continues, her hands fiddling as she figures her answer out. “You can have me.” Her eyes widen a little comically as she begins to flush, starting a rambling, “No, that’s not what I meant, I...”

Sherlock processes this as she speaks, trying to take on the idea that he shouldn’t; not the way he usually uses her help, not that. He cannot afford to dismiss it, however, not when the game is finally in motion and he needs all the allies he can enlist. “But what _could_ I need from you?” He finally asks, a cautious buffer that he sets up for her to step over if she chooses.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs sadly, eyes on his. “Whatever I can do, I will do. I’m sorry, Sherlock, for what’s happened to you, but... you should probably go.”

“I should, yes,” he echoes after her, his grip tight on the door as he yanks it open, pausing a moment as if to speak before he dismisses it. Instead, he makes his way out of the facility, feeling an odd sense of dread falling gently upon his skin.

+

The inside of the lift is fancy, all dark wood and subtle carpeting just like the entire building. Sherlock had hesitated when he had to quote her flat’s number to the sour receptionist, but the March Hare had quietly stated over the intercom that he was to be treated like an important guest and that the management would be hearing from her _very soon_ if Sherlock was made to feel unwelcome in any way. Predictably enough, the receptionist’s disposition experienced a complete change after that as she ushered Sherlock towards the lift, all smiles and a tension in her suddenly sweaty neck that screamed how much her job was on the line.

Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t take pleasure in little amusements.

The doors open with a snooty declaration in a thick, fake voice. “Twenty-third floor,” the female voice drawls, and Sherlock has to resist the urge to vandalise the in-built speakers near the mirror just to prove a point. Silence is everywhere in the corridors when he walks cautiously through them, navigating the exquisitely wallpapered labyrinth while squinting at numbers to find ‘2311’.

The March Hare’s flat is in a small, hidden corner, and it’s ridiculous how gilded the gates look. “The bourgeoisie,” he whispers quietly to himself, threatrical, chuckling. He touches the soft petals of a bizarre-looking exotic plant (and isn’t March Hare just feeding into the quirky rich stereotype, whoever she is?) just outside her gate before he remembers to ring the doorbell.

Sherlock stands back, trying for beaming, positioning himself just so it’s easier for her to see the whole of him from her door. There’s a pause, and then a woman opens the door a little carefully.

He blinks once, twice. She looks awfully familiar.

She tosses her hair behind her. “So?” She says, and her voice really is very lyrical. He can’t quite put his thumb on it, but-

Of course. “I saw you in the papers. Clement wrote about you.”

Annette Scarlett’s lips quirk into a smile as she realises that he recognises her, the dazzling celebrity-smile that’s on the front of tabloids everywhere when they’re not taking pictures of her being absolutely drunk. She rests her hand on her hip as she leans on the door. “Alice,” she nods just slightly, cocking her head to the side as she regards him. “You’re just a bit late.”

“My apologies,” Sherlock returns, taking in the carefully curled hair, the heavy makeup and the distinct sense of suspiciousness in her appearance. Too put together, and too calm. He’s almost immediately on alert. “I suppose I’m lacking a pocket-watch.”

She laughs at the allusion, and she nods. “Indeed you are, Mr. Holmes.”

“Might I come in?” he asks her, and she smiles just a tad wider. Stepping aside, she gestures into the room, all bright lights and mirrors. The entire condominium might scream of gaudiness and old money, but he has to commend Annette for her taste in furniture and upholstery, at least. She seems to have been in the middle of preparing for a show, from what he can see of the sheet music on the table.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she says over her shoulder, pulling out a chair and sitting herself down as she watches him expectantly. She folds her legs — left over right, dainty and practiced, that smile still on her lips for the warmest and briefest moment. “Chalk it down to my artistic temperament. How goes your investigation?”

“I see you’re not one for preamble,” Sherlock says, pulling out a chair to seat himself, too, facing her with some reservation. He folds his hands in his lap, waiting for her to betray the first of what he knows must be numerous idiosyncrasies. “You offered me information, did you not?”

She sighs, as if put-upon. “So I did. Really, Alice, I was rather hoping we could get a bit of chatter in before it all got so serious. I mean, Clement’s an old stooge, but I'd rather like to get to know you better." She flicks her hand almost dismissively. "I might not have the chance to participate in lovely, idle chatter with you after this, hmm?"

Sherlock doesn’t like that she seems to know far more than she lets on already, the condescension in her smile definitely evident as she sits there. After a moment of silence on his end, she stands and makes to move toward a kettle in the corner. “Well, Mr. Holmes. I’d offer you some tea to begin with. You’ll recognise it.”

That catches his attention, and he turns sharply. “What is it?”

“That’s a secret. I doubt you're a stranger to the flavour, though.” She raises an eyebrow like a question, pouring them each a cup with tea bags in, the labels removed, her movements fluid and graceful as she steps back to offer it to him. “It’s a blend none of us fancy betraying to anyone.”

 _Us._ Sherlock perks up at that, but he doesn’t ask, hoping that she will continue to volunteer information on her own, the talkative woman that she is. She takes a sip and sets her cup down, taking her seat across him again. She doesn’t seem to want to say anymore than that, though, and Sherlock leans forward to prompt her.

“Where is it from?”

“I pick it up on my travels,” she returns with bright eyes, meeting his, expecting that question with a practiced, smoothly mechanical answer. "Here and there. You find the most unexpected things." Annette seems to know what he is thinking, preempting, almost like there is a voice in her ear. Thinking back to the event at the pool some time ago, he supposes it isn’t completely unlikely.

He doesn’t bother to find out. It doesn't matter if Moriarty chooses to lay some clues out for him to follow. The challenge is to discover the red herrings, the ones that are designed to deconstruct the case into pieces that even Sherlock cannot put together.

Again, something inside Sherlock stirs at the idea of that challenge, mixed with the frustration.

“What can you tell me about Wonderland?” He asks her outright, knowing that she has a set of instructions by the look she gives him, the way she expects his questions, the way she sits just perfectly on the edge of her seat to seem eager. It's calculated; too calculated. "I'd rather not stay here for too long, if that’s all the same to you.”

She seems to change, then, her eyes narrowing as she straightens up where she's seated, a long graceful curve. “Very well,” she says quietly, setting her cup down, finality in her short, sharp words. “I can tell you nothing.”

He almost protests, but he can hear the implications under her voice. The words are loaded with shades of meaning, and it's as though she cannot speak beyond what he prompts her to say. Sherlock already feels the odd sense of being watched (and how unlikely that is, which makes it altogether promising for Moriarty to do it), and he shifts so that he knows that at least his lips are covered from a video feed.

“Let’s rephrase. What _will_ you tell me, Scarlett?” He asks again, softer, more dangerous. He doesn’t want to pretend that he wants anything less, having contacted him, drawn him out into the public. “I don’t suppose it’s the recipe for the blend.”

She laughs, but it’s less bell-like now, darker and heavier as she looks at him. “No. I’m going to die, Alice,” she says; meeting his eyes evenly, posture straight. “And you’re going to kill me, too. Nothing less than that.”

Sherlock affords a smile, injecting some ruthlessness into it and he has some satisfaction as she flinches, just the tiniest bit. He sits back in his chair, eyes still locked on hers. “Of course. Nothing less,” he agrees.

“However, I’d seek your next victim out first,” she says, looking away, a sigh in her voice as she picks her tea up again with a slightly faltering smirk. Taking a sip, she stretches out and looks over, the smile growing more confident now and spreading wide as she adds, “Wouldn’t do if she died before she delivered her piece.”

“The next—” Sherlock cuts himself off, feeling thrown and disconcerted. The room seems to lurch sickly as he registers his situation: he's like a marionette who's been jolted awake, realising for the first time how he's been manipulated by his puppeteer's strings to dance. He curses inwardly; he's played right into their hands, following the path they'd so nonchalantly set out for him. 

Now, Annette cuts his strings, expecting his curiosity to lead him.

“Who is she?” He almost cuts her off, sitting up straight, and he meets her eyes evenly. Trying, of course, to keep his curiosity down is a challenge, but he manages it well enough as he looks at her, lets the name tumble from his lips. The next piece of the puzzle. “The Mad Hatter.”

Annette laughs and picks her empty teacup up in her hands. “Well. That should be part of the fun, finding her. Can’t be very difficult,” she says, turning it as she shrugs. “Good friend of mine, if you still need a hint, a nudge in the right direction. All kinds of leads, if you know where to look.”

“Everything's been wiped clean.”

“Naturally,” she raises her empty cup in a toast. “But you already know her. Hardly any need for clues, not when you’ve seen her face.” He just looks at her, brows furrowing, and she eventually sighs that little sigh she does before she stands and shrugs. "Fine, if you really need more information... I must say I'm a little disappointed that you didn't pick up on her identity sooner."

She makes to leave him behind in the room as she pauses at the door, fingernails tapping lightly against the edge. “One more thing, though. Don’t move anything, if you can. I prefer to have my things in order.”

It takes him just a moment, but as she leaves, Sherlock is on his feet and inspecting the mirrors, the photographs pulled off so he could get a better look. Sorting them by face, careful to keep track of how they sat with each other, he finally accumulates a sizeable pile of photographs with a woman leaned against Annette.

The blonde seems slightly absent, but he recognises her. Where has he already seen the pianist, obviously a partner of sorts to the Hare? He had only managed to be in and out of the library since the party—

The party. 

That's it; the image in his memory is suddenly sharp with clarity. He remembers her sitting at the baby grand in the middle of the ballroom, all grace and poise as she plays achingly familiar pieces that Sherlock knows by heart, fingers dancing effortlessly, dreamily over the keys. He would have to ask Mycroft for the pianist's name; he can't risk guessing it.

Sherlock feels the urge to run, the sense of time dissipating as urgency floods his thoughts. He moves out toward the kitchen, and Annette pulls out a pocket watch then, dangling in her fingers, tutting as she flips it open. Her eyes are lively as she studies the face, chuckling, looking up at him.

“Dear me, Mr. Holmes. You must be running late.”

+

He’s so immersed in the papers that the knock startles him. John jumps to his feet and almost falls over himself with how he rushes to get the door open, heart beginning to beat wildly in his chest. Was Sherlock all right, was it someone who found him, did he get _caught_ —

"It's just me," Irene says when John opens the door a little too quickly, a little too eagerly. "Sorry to disappoint you, lover boy."

John flushes at the comment, and he's not sure why it makes his face heat He releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding, though, rolls his eyes and lets her in. "I was expecting you,” he says callously. “Sherlock informed me.”

"Sure, but it wasn't me you were looking forward to seeing, was it?"

He ignores that in favour of ushering her to the couches, deflecting the quip. "I'm worried about Sherlock, aren't you? I've no reason to be worried about _you_. You're not the fugitive on the run, wanted for murder."

"Perhaps not, but I've had my minor altercations with the law over the last few months, as you're very well aware." Irene smooths her thumb over the screen of her phone, as if in memory. John's eyes flick to it; it's like she's trying to remind him of Belgravia all over again. 

"Yes, well, let's leave it at that." John's not really in the mood for Irene's games. Moriarty's grand, orchestrated play with Sherlock at its centre is quite enough for now, what with all the lives at stake. "Did you get a handle on Moriarty via your contacts?"

Irene smiles at him, amused. "Come now, John,” she says, steepling her fingers in an odd, familiar movement that isn’t quite hers. “Did you think it was going to be easy?”

"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it," he says tersely, feeling his temper beginning to stir.

"Alas, I do. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Sherlock won’t be there to untangle them for you.” She laughs when he sputters, flushing despite himself. “I haven’t — not really. He's been very unreachable as of late." She toys with a doily Mrs. Hudson had left on their table, the off-white patterns ruined by the tea stains. "There have been... whispers about Wonderland, though."

"I'd have thought Moriarty would have been more subtle about a so-called secret society dealing with drugs if he was trying to link Sherlock to murder, criminalised distribution of questionable goods... the whole package, if you think about it."

"Aren't you adorable." Irene smooths the lace on her dress down, looking every inch the perfect, polished companion. John isn't fooled one bit. “I have my sources, but if other people are hearing about Wonderland now...”

“...He wants us to know,” John finishes after a moment, and Irene offers a smile in patronising praise. “Quite so,” she murmurs, and looks to him to continue.

“To make things interesting the way Sherlock likes it, I gather?” John remarks, voice dry like a desert.

“Who knows what goes on in the minds of those two?” she says easily, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

He holds his hands up as if in mock defeat. “I wouldn’t know. This is their equivalent of having it out in a ring, only with more complicated and confusing, intricate rules to their game and a lot more at stake. Sherlock has got everything to lose, though, while Moriarty...” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, not right off the bat.” At John’s questioning eyebrow, she shrugs and presses on. “I’m not referring to wealth, or family, or even pride. Jim Moriarty’s a unique one, like Sherlock Holmes. He’s spent his life looking for the perfect distraction.” Irene makes that last word a threatrical whisper. “Sherlock’s looking for one, too; a perfect puzzle. I think this is a dance they’re both enjoying immensely, and with every victim that falls to Moriarty’s machinations — or Sherlock, as it were — they’re dancing closer and closer to the centre of it all.”

John’s unnerved by how dark and unfeeling Irene’s eyes are this side of the firelight. “A confrontation?”

“Exactly.”

“I know it’s — well, let’s be honest — _inevitable,_ but what if we could stop it? It wouldn’t end well. Not that I don’t believe in Sherlock, because...” He trails off there. It’s definitely not because John doesn’t believe in Sherlock; it’s that Sherlock and Moriarty are two explosive forces, unyielding and stubborn with so much potential for _destruction_ in their own right that John can’t see any way this storm can be resolved without everything going to pot.

He can still remember the cold, cruel feeling of having the bombs strapped to his body, and how he was this close to taking both Moriarty and Sherlock with him.

John imagines he can hear Moriarty’s laughter, crazed and triumphant.

It chills him to the bone.

Irene smiles, not really teasing anymore. “You believe in him, John Watson.”

He doesn’t even hesitate before answering. “Of course I do.”

“Of course.” She stands up, the click of her heels loud and unfamiliar in the flat, walking around to him and leaning casually against the back of the single-seater he’s sprawled in.  Irene’s thoughtful, and she’s usually so full of sharp ripostes and effortless innuendo that her seriousness and sincerity of tone is jarring. “Is that all there is to it?”

Something niggles at him; it’s the way she says it. “All there is to what?”

“I see being subtle isn’t going to get my point across.” She sighs, just the right amount of long-suffering in her inflection. “Right. I tease you about him all the time, but in all seriousness: Doctor Watson, how _do_ you feel about Sherlock Holmes?”

The question takes him rather by surprise. Of all the things he’d expected her to dish out, it was certainly not this train of thought. He’s not sure how to interpret that, either. John opens his mouth, and then Irene adds hastily, “Romantically.” There’s an awkward pause, and then her mouth curves into her trademark smirk, all smoothness and sensuality. “Or sexually, if you like,” she drags the words out like they’re filthy.

“Um,” he begins intelligently, feeling the beginnings of a world-class blush coming on. “I was under the impression you were just pulling my leg all this time. About Sherlock, I mean.” To his horror, he realises too late he’s validating her assumptions, and he adds a hurried explanation. “But I’m not gay.”

Irene closes her eyes, tapping her fingers impatiently against the couch. “If I were the sort to throw things, Doctor Watson,” she says evenly, “Rest assured I would grab the nearest item off the mantelpiece and fling it squarely at your face.”

“I’m _not,_ ” John protests, discomfited at the fact that they’re _having this conversation in the first place._ He squirms in his seat, thinking fiercely of Sherlock and blaming him irrationally for not being here to distract Irene from this line of dialogue.“Irene, I don’t know what kind of kinky ideas you’ve formulated in your mind, but we are _not_ a couple.”

“Sweet summer child,” she says a little pityingly. “You’ve no idea at all how you appear to the outside world, do you? For all intents and purposes, you’re both as good as married.”

He has no idea how she’s arrived at _that_ conclusion. “Hardly.”

“Really. Give it a good long, hard look.” Her voice is flat, and then she winks at him. “Pun very much intended.”

Now John feels like the one who wants to throw things. “It’s not what you think!”

“‘Said the horrified lover, caught _in flagrante delicto_ with the object of his affections, tangled between the sheets and his cheek against the other man’s cock,’” Irene recites dramatically. John looks at her, as horrified as the fictional lover she’d described, turning a ridiculous shade of red. She shrugs. “Something I read on the Internet a couple of days ago. You’d be surprised at what some people write about existing fictional characters.”

“Spare me.” He doesn’t recognise himself, it’s like his words died crawling out of his throat from embarrassment. “Yes. Well. No, it’s really not what you think. Is everything about sex with you?”

“No,” Irene answers almost immediately, brusque. John winces inwardly when he remembers the way she’s looked at Sherlock, how she’s told John about flirting _at_ him, and how there was so much more to the both of them in their strange not-courtship. For some unfathomable reason, Irene’s still more keen on teasing John and Sherlock about each other, prompting them to interact with each other cautiously, warmly as they never have before. He doesn’t understand Irene’s motivations, and he suspect he never will. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, regretting his earlier words immediately. “I didn’t think that through, I was an arse.”

“In a fashion.” She shakes her head. “You really have to realise the depth of your emotions for this man, Doctor Watson, before it’s too late.”

He opens his mouth, about to refute her, but something stops him. Irene’s earnest now, eyes too bright, words too heavy, and it tugs at John’s mind. She can’t be right, because John doesn’t swing that way, he’s only ever dated women, how could he have feelings of any kind for Sherlock? But then she’s looking at him in that way that urges him to come on, to not disappoint her, to not disappoint himself. 

His thoughts trickle in slow; John considers the strange warmth he feels when Sherlock makes a particularly brilliant deduction, the fierce pride and affection that echoes in a familiar yet unfamiliar manner in his chest. It’s nothing like when he dates a woman, but there’re splinters of it that remind him of why he asks someone out on a date in the first place: his heart skipping a beat, his urge to be a better man to impress, lingering touches.

(He nearly groans aloud when he realises that between him and Sherlock both, well, they have countless moments of those lingering touches in _spades._ )

Most of all, there’s the way a girl makes him unable to stop smiling, a hiccup of a reflex when he sees someone he’s infatuated with.

Well.

Smiling. There’s the way Sherlock smiles at him, slow and knowing, and how John never fails to return it with one of his own — smiles are nothing, he tells himself firmly, but he recognises his own denial for the lie that it is because those small moments with Sherlock are so personal, an in-joke of sorts that they both share that’s intimate, that’s theirs alone.

Sherlock makes him think, makes him unbelievably frustrated, makes him laugh. Above everything else, he makes John smile in ways none of his previous lovers have before, and John is forced to concede there has always been something more to their camaraderie, something deeper.

It’s not exactly what he considers a strictly romantic view of their tangled, comfortable mess of a friendship, but nobody had ever disagreed with the fact that their relationship was _anything_ but simple.

John is fucked.

Judging from the expression on Irene’s face, concern and seriousness falling away to be replaced by something like smugness, he reckons that she’s picked up on that, too.

He makes a helpless gesture, trying to convey his denial wordlessly, but she just ignores that and laughs, a rich sound. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“I know what you’re trying to _mean_ , but you’ve got it all wrong.” His argument sounds weak even to him.

She waggles her eyebrows. “Want to bet?”

It’s John’s turn to sigh in a long-suffering demeanor of sorts. “No.” 

“Spoilsport,” Irene pouts. Her gaze turns scrutinising, teeth flashing in a calculative smile as she studies him, seeming to weigh her next words carefully. “So I can have him, then?” There’s nothing particularly teasing in her voice now. “If you don’t...”

Displeasure courses through him, an unexpected slow and gradual burn. It shakes him. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have a claim on him or anything of the sort,” Irene says offhandedly. “And he’s not with anyone. Never been with anyone. A girl likes that kind of challenge.”

John grits his teeth, gripping at the edge of his armrest.  A sense of vertigo keeps him off-balance, making him want to snap. “Stop it.”

“Why?” She sounds genuinely curious, waiting for his answer. Her expectations linger on that one word, heavy, asking a hundred questions with that one simple syllable.

He doesn’t know how to answer the questions she wants answered, uncertainty curling about his thoughts. Then, there’s the irritation. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“But, really.” Her manicured nails shine brightly as she rests her chin on the back of her hands, leaning forward. “One man’s dismissal is all the permission another woman needs to make a move. I’m not about to say no to such an opportunity.”

John stands up abruptly, the dishes clattering on the table as he knocks against it. “He’s not something for you to toy with.”

She doesn’t look fazed in the slightest, but her smile’s predatory now. It’s like she wants to see what John will do, how he’ll react to this. He refuses to be played. “Isn’t that a little selfish? It’s like you want to keep him all to yourself.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“He’s not mine, hmm?” She stands up, too, walking over to him. She’s a willowy thing, soft curves in the right places, and if he didn’t know how sharp she could cut, he would’ve shivered in anticipation. “He’s not yours. You’ve got no claim on him, so why can’t I stake one? Life is so short, doctor, we all want to have some fun.”

“You’ve wrecked him before,” he manages to say. “That’s not the best idea. I forbid it.”

Her eyes narrow. “Making his decisions for him? How very domestic.”

“No, that’s not —” John stops, frustrated. “I just watch out for him, because he’s so preoccupied with everything else, he slips and misses the little things, personal things.” And now he’s starting on a rant; great, just what he needed. He ploughs on anyway. “For all that people say he’s a heartless machine with gears for organs and a chip for a brain, I _know_ he’s affected by what people say, I can tell when he lets the emotions set in, the loneliness around him when he thinks no one is looking. I see it, and I hate it when people use him or take him for granted just because they think he can handle it. He can, because he’s far stronger and a far better person than some people give him credit for, but that doesn’t mean he _should!_ ” 

He’d started shouting halfway through his tirade, words tumbling from him as his voice rose in an impassioned crescendo. There’s a prickly silence hanging after as neither of them speak for a minute or two.

John looks Irene in the eye. “I’d be damned before I see him get hurt.”

She rubs a thumb against her temple, exhaling and looking away from him. When she does meet his eyes again, it’s with something like resignation and a little bit like approval. “Sherlock Holmes is very lucky to have you,” she comments, almost reluctantly, but her words are warm. John takes it for the apology it is and isn’t.

Laughing, he sits down again, trying to alleviate the tension. “Perhaps. I do know our fridge would never get stocked with proper food if I wasn’t doing it on a regular basis.”

“You give _yourself_ too little credit. You’re more important than that.” Irene shrugs, an almost imperceptible gesture that looks out of place, too casual and too jerky in the folds of her elegance. She looks to the clock. “Well.  It’s half-past, now. Sherlock should’ve reached at a quarter-past.” 

John’s puzzled at that, too. He’s lost track of time, but it’s not like Sherlock to be late. Especially not now, on the run from the long arm of the law. 

“He’s usually punctual,” John says with a sense of slowly growing dread. 

“Ah.” Irene’s not smiling anymore, brows creased with a touch of worry, but she tries for humour anyway. It’s a weak attempt. “I hope he’s not fallen down a rabbit hole.” 

John looks out the window at the harsh sunlit neighbourhood from where he’s seated, cursing. 

+

“That’s preposterous,” Mycroft says immediately, when Sherlock is in the middle of explaining the scheme. “She’s an _artist_ , Sherlock, anyone who knows her personally would only be too happy to tell you she hasn’t a large... er, interest in social activity.”

“While it’d be highly preferable to have this conversation over dinner, brother dear,” Sherlock says dryly. “I’d appreciate a sense of urgency.”

Mycroft pauses for a moment before he speaks, obviously having moved into his office. At the Diogenes Club, Sherlock expects, and he waits with an impatient hand drumming on the door of his cab. “The Hatter, you say?” He says tiredly. “The pianist?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock sits up straighter. “Her name?”

“Rose,” Mycroft responds, a bit sharper this time. “Caitlyn Ann Rose, prodigy. A genius, really. What I don’t understand is why she would offer her services to—”

“I require an address. Details discussed later, and preferably over text,” Sherlock insists, sharp. There isn’t time to dally, not when he expects twin murders to show up within the next week. Rose, he makes a note in his mind, a sharp and clear hat set on the stand in his mind palace. “The question is, why would Moriarty choose a woman with no significant attention? Barely any relation with a dispatch of substances.”

He considers it for a moment. “Must there be reasons?” he queries lightly, and Sherlock laughs effortlessly as he nods. Mycroft is right, after all.

“Perhaps it is about literary flair. Friends, dead at a tea party,” he says dryly. “Do hurry with the search, brother. I’d prefer to be home by dinner.”

Mycroft says something about how Sherlock is being terribly rude, and he ignores that in favour of the information that he knows will eventually come whether he graces Mycroft with a smile or not. With that, he clicks off the nagging in his ear and sighs tightly, turning the pipe in his hands before he tucks it into his coat pocket. He supposes, oddly enough, that this is his move once more.

+

She seems infinitely worse than the last, barely able to sit still, flitting around the house with absent comments despite his attempts to seat her. Her hair loosely curled and obviously on her way to a performance for the night, she doesn’t quite seem to fit with the rest of them. Caitlyn is like a woman from another time, another world, the way she’s so lost in her own fantasies and thoughts.

“Did you know, Mr. Holmes, that the sky isn’t actually blue?” she remarks vaguely, moving around with a flowerpot in her arms, humming as she drums her fingers on the china. “It’s a spectrum of shorter wavelengths, but our eyes register it as such.”

His lips twitch. He’s not sure whether he should smile or take her comment seriously. “No, I’m afraid I wasn’t quite aware of that.”

“Yes, most people just aren’t. There’s just this severe lack of curiosity around here,” she sighs disappointedly, setting it down on the nearby table. 

Sherlock doesn’t quite respond to that and instead watches her in silence, but she doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as she picks her mug of tea up again. Frankly, Sherlock’s finding her eccentricity is erring on the side of completely batshit, and he’s not even been here ten minutes. 

She finally stops for a moment to pour hot water into a second, offering it to him. “So very sorry.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, affecting a smile of apology at him. “The Cheshire Cat has been so terribly tight with the supply—”

 _Cheshire Cat._ Mention of a character, just like the Hare had done. Perhaps this was the pattern that he had been looking for, something that he could pursue for the information he needed. Sherlock sits up straighter as he cuts her off, but it seems all too polite for his own good, and he has no _time_. 

“What sort of supply does he provide?” He cocks his head to the side, the easy smile in place as he tries to encourage her to elaborate further. One can never afford to leave any possible leads behind, after all. 

She’s humming again as he asks her a question. “Hmm? Oh, it’s a tea supply, nothing more — but he’s rather difficult to find,” she shrugs, sitting down beside him. “He’s rather elusive, you see. Just like the tea. It’s such a shame, the blend’s impossible to find anywhere else.” 

“I suppose he would be, what with the name you’ve given him,” Sherlock smiles, the muscles in his jaw beginning to ache while he looks up at her, taking the mug from her hands. The labels are not removed from these tea bags; they’re black, with a kind of ostentatious design on it, a circular graphic.

She laughs and wipes her hands on her dress, blond hair falling softly down her front. Caitlyn reminds Sherlock of one of those musical-sounding nymphs or fairytale characters. “Yes, I suppose,” Caitlyn agrees.

He’s never been fond of flighty, dreamy characters like that.

Something else seems to occur to her, and she beams. “Mr. Holmes, have you ever been to the Scottish Conservatoire? I do believe they’ve an excellent blueberry tart, if you know who to ask.”

Alarmed at the prospect of discussing yet another pointless topic, Sherlock tries to redirect their conversation quickly as he feels her veer from him again. “I’m afraid I haven’t, Miss Rose — Caitlyn,” he addresses her, and she turns her eyes back on him again with an approving smile. While he holds her attention, he starts to speak again, quick and urgent with his words. “Tell me something — what do you know about the Caterpillar?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Holmes. The life cycle had apparently slipped under my radar in elementary,” she laughs, and Sherlock blinks a moment before he realises exactly what she’s going on about. 

“No, no,” he laughs, attempting to keep the facade of his friendliness intact. It’s becoming _really_ trying, but he can’t let it show. “ _The_ Caterpillar. Your friend, or so I’ve heard?”

“ _The_ Caterpilla— ah, you must be talking about Clement? Dear me,” she frowns. “He isn’t hurt, is he?”

“Far worse — he’s passed away, I’m afraid,” he sighs heavily, taking a sip of the tea — unexpectedly, now, it takes exactly the same as the others’, and he finds himself more and more curious for the source. The Hare had pulled the label off the bag just before she brought him the cup; that seems a tad more suspicious now that he has the time to think of it.

Caitlyn lets out a sigh, and she sets her cup down. “He wasn’t well, the last I saw him,” she says vaguely.

“I’m afraid not, but that pipe of his mustn’t have been good for him. I was wondering if you’d know anything about it?” He furrows his brow at least in thought, trying for convincing and keeping his back straight.

Caitlyn doesn’t speak, as if she hasn’t heard him, humming an absent tune as she turns around her flat. Sherlock drums his fingers and feels the impatience build, figuring soon enough that she isn’t actually going to be worth as much as Scarlett has claimed. “Caitlyn?” He prompts again.

Again, the silence. Sherlock hasn’t the time for a game, however, knowing full well that she is likely to be dead the next time he sees her. Pulling the pipe from his coat, he sets it on the table as her back is turned. “Do you recognise this?” He asks her bluntly, hoping that she at least comprehends _that_ , if nothing else _._

__

“Something of Clement’s? I don’t think—” She’s saying, just as she turns around, but she sees it and she blanches, her face draining of colour and her legs visibly trembling as she takes a step back. 

“What is that?” She points, immediately reaching behind herself for some kind of purchase, her eyes trained explicitly on the pipe. Caitlyn is backing away, as if it’s about to explode or wound, and her words are still fearful. “Why have you brought it?”

Sherlock stands to advance towards her, frowning at her reaction, but her eyes flicker to him in terror as she grips the table. “Stay _back_!” She insists. “What’ve I done? Who sent you?”

“I haven’t— what does the pipe mean?” He demands of her, trying to pull her attention back to him, but her eyes are trained just behind him to the table, struggling in his grip as her words begin to amplify into incoherence, the unsteady and stuttering rhythm of her words starting to feed Sherlock’s curiosity.

“Hatter, no-one’s going to hurt you—” Sherlock ventures, but then she claps her hands over her ears as she murmurs a bit louder, trying to block him out. He tries to pry them off, but she lets out a terrified scream; the flowerpot she had sat down clatters to the ground, breaking into colourful shards and leaving a mess of it. Caitlyn cringes at the sound, the fear evident in the taut line of her back as her head snaps around. 

Immediately, Sherlock releases her. The scream is a tell-tale sign that will send her neighbours scuttling over to check on her soon. With desperation, he places his hands on her shoulders tightly, holding her in place, and she finally falls into a state of momentary calm. Her eyes flicker between the pipe and his face, as if she can’t decide what’s more horrifying at this moment, as if she can’t decide which one she should look away from. 

“Please,” she begs him quietly. “Please, Alice. You’ve got to let me live, you can’t just kill me, not _now_ —”

Sherlock frowns at that, and he’s on the verge of protest before her mind travels on an alternate tangent, apparently absent even in her flurry of panic. 

“It must’ve been something I did,” she murmurs, lost in thought, as she looks off to the side while biting her lip. “Dear God, what _have_ I done? Has the Cat sent you, Alice?”

“Stop it. Stop it, _now_!” He finally shouts at her, and she falls into a silence. “Tell me,” he tries to soften his eyes, and he pats his hands a bit more heavily on her shoulders. “Tell me, Hatter — _who_ is the Cat?”

“I can’t— I don’t—” she shakes her head unsteadily, looking up at him as she still pleads. There is a certain acquiescence in the way she looks up at him, and he ignores the frustration as he lets her speak — her reply is considered, for the first time, and she breathes it back with unusual clarity and focus. 

“I—” She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I don’t know, Alice.” She opens her eyes, then, and she cocks her head to another side, this time, repeating her words from earlier. “Rather elusive, you see. _Such_ a shame.”

+

The sky’s dark when he finally leaves the Hatter’s, and Sherlock groans at how absurdly quickly night has fallen. John and Irene had been expecting him, and God knows what kind of frenzy John’s worked himself into by now. He fishes out his phone, almost fumbling it in his haste as he taps to get through to John’s number.

One ring, two, and John picks up immediately. He’s reliable like that. “John?” Sherlock begins, clearing his throat.

“Sherlock?" John says, and Sherlock thinks he can visibly perceive the shifts in his face, the expressions he flits through in his agonised confusion before settling on — "Have you gone barking _mad?_ " is the shout he hears ringing in his ears, and Sherlock winces, pulling his scarf up further in the dry and peculiar not-cold of London's summer winds. "You shouldn't be calling! And this isn't your mobile number, how did y— where are you— no, don't answer that, do you have any idea how worried I have been, not that I expected you to even call in the first place because good heavens, Sherlock, do you _know_ what we’ve been thinking, we were wondering what the bloody hell could’ve happened to you—"

There is something so warm and familiar, listening to John berating him like this, hearing the anxious affection beneath the rage, the words unsaid behind every insult. Sherlock smiles, despite everything, because he _knows_ John. He knows it like an unshakeable and sturdy constant in his life.

It’s only been a little over a year, and he already cannot imagine 221B without the good doctor in it.

Sherlock sobers. _If_ he can actually return to the flat, of course. He doesn't doubt that he can, but knowing Moriarty, he'll do everything in his power to prevent it. Sherlock acknowledges that he has drawn the ire and attention of a very dangerous psychopath indeed, and even though he really is getting quite the kick out of this twisted game of cat and mouse they are playing, Sherlock knows that he stands to lose everything if he isn't careful.

Well. And then, there's how Sherlock loathes the very idea of losing, on top of everything else; he isn't going to let Jim walk away with any small amount of satisfaction, if at all.

"Are you even listening to me?" John's voice is exasperated, and Sherlock blinks slowly. "I know you're there, Sherlock. You were muttering to yourself again." A pause. "You great sod," John adds, seemingly like an afterthought. It's like a verbal tell of John's fondness of him, and Sherlock can't imagine why, though he suspects John will deny it to the end of his days.

Sherlock fidgets, leans back against the wall of the dark alley and observes the passers-by from his corner: a couple meets beneath a lamp-post, oddly reminiscent of one of the dramas Mrs. Hudson would enjoy as they kiss under the light. "How quaint," Sherlock murmurs to himself, regarding them curiously. How refreshing it must be to feel so much, to see so much in another person and look at one another like that with adoration while also being utterly blind - he is at least 80% sure the woman is cheating on her partner from her nervous tics and excessive shuffling, but the man is blissfully unaware.  

It must be nice, to look at things as they are but never truly observe.

He formulates a plan. It isn't as foolproof as he would've liked, given the extenuating circumstances, but Sherlock supposes that it'll do for now. Unfolding from the shadows and taut like a string, a dark figure swathed in black and London's low lights, Sherlock exhales. "This is important. Listen, John.”

John listens, but he’s not exactly quiet throughout the entire time Sherlock explains his roughly crafted plan to him, interrupting with short questions or uncertain half-murmurs, but he does listen. When he’s done, John grunts and says that yes, he understands, and that yes, he’ll carry Sherlock’s orders out to a T.

If John were someone else, he might jokingly say that Sherlock owes him big time, now, or that he’d resent Sherlock giving him orders. But John is John, unquestioningly loyal and his trust in Sherlock is unshakeable even when Sherlock’s been painted as a murderer in the eyes of all of London.

They speak amiably for a while, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy by catching up like some old friends do, laughing breathlessly into their phones. 

“She said that?” Sherlock huffs at a snide comment John makes about Irene, something about her making yet another joke about the two of them that John had certainly not taken seriously. John’s specific denial seems a little suspicious, but Sherlock lets it lie and ignores the little twist in his stomach when John laughs it off, uneasy and unsure as if he’d regretted bringing it up.

He can almost hear John swallow from over the phone, see the way his Adam’s apple bobs in nervousness. It’s rare, because John’s almost never nervous, all quiet confidence and battle-trained nerves. “Yeah. Forget I brought that up.”

“No,” Sherlock says suddenly, and just seconds later he’s unsure of why he said that so quickly. “Just.” He scrambles to say something. “I’m not saying that Irene’s on the money, but I thought I’d say that I don’t actually mind.”

That came out a little differently than he’d intended.

“That is,” Sherlock tries again, rolling his eyes at himself and coughing delicately. This isn’t really something he can dance around. “Just ignore her, you know how she gets. But in the case where you’re worried about what I think, or anything like that... I’m indifferent, it doesn’t really matter either way. Don’t let it get to you.”

The pause creeping between them is painfully awkward.

“Irene’s just taking the piss, I’m sure,” John says at last, but his voice wavers on his words like a half-lie. It edges in on Sherlock’s consciousness, makes him wonder.

Sherlock grins, hopes that he can convey it by his side of the conversation, trying to rid their dialogue of the discomfort permeating it. “Maybe. To concede her point, though, you are talking to me about her like a disgruntled housewife relating tales of another neighbour who’s displeased her immensely with her choice of ingredients in her carelessly baked pastries.”

“You are dead to me, Sherlock,” John says, deadpan. He takes in a breath, as if he’s going to say something else, and there’s the hint of something _more_ in the air for a while. It’s tangible, a thick feeling of inevitability, and he feels so drawn to John in that moment even through the static of the phone that Sherlock almost can’t _breathe._ John doesn’t say anything, and Sherlock contemplates breaking the quiet, to shake this feeling of gravitation off.

“Be careful,” John says instead after a fashion, breaking the heavy silence.

Sherlock exhales, wonders why he feels like he’s missed something important. He misses John, Sherlock realises. He does. “I... will, John. Thank you.” Misses his jumper, misses his frown, the turn of his deft and skilled hands, misses...

Misses John, for reasons he can’t quite articulate.

“You too.”

+

John isn’t quite sure why he’s sat in the lobby of St. Bart’s again for the first time in years, as if he’s here for that interview all those years ago. Before he had been heading for Afghanistan, surely, but here he is, turning the phone in his fingers, the text still clear on the screen.

_Bring Molly. SH_

Something’s vaguely off about the set-up, if he’s honest, the way Sherlock has been behaving — and Molly finally makes an appearance, then. John tries to mask his initial surprise at the way she looks now, her hair left to fall at her shoulders, the circles under her eyes betraying the late nights she must have been working in the morgue. 

He stands and her eyes flicker over, a tired smile on her lips as she veers off her path to walk towards him. He tries to return it, hands behind his back as she finally comes to stand in front of him. “John,” she greets him after a pause, a huff in her breath as the smile takes on an edge of artificiality. He ignores that, however, feeling that he shouldn’t press her for any kind of information she isn’t going to volunteer — after all, she’s already agreed to assist them. He can’t afford to ask for more.

“Molly,” he says instead. “Don’t suppose you’d like a coffee, before we go?”

She smiles, wry, a chuckle through her lips before she looks up. “Black, two sugars. I’ll be upstairs,” she says, both slightly absent and lost in a memory of something long past. “Give me another few minutes, alright?”

John blinks at her. “Absolutely. Um, there’s a cab outside—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Molly looks over his shoulder at it, visible through the glass, abashed. “Two minutes. I’m so sorry.”

And then she is gone, pulling out a folder as she hurries off, her steps quickened but even as she moves through the lobby to the other end, toward the desk and around the corner; Out of sight. Another minute later, she emerges without the brown paper in her arms, and she smiles easily at him as she tucks her hair behind her ear. 

“Right, shall we?” she says as she comes to a stop in front of him. John misses a beat, and then he gets his bearings back, and smiles at her again. 

“Yes, sorry,” he chuckles nervously, his mind still absent as he’s attempting to understand Sherlock’s plan of attack. Whatever had that been for? “There’s just been a lot on my mind, Sherlock being what he is.”

“What he is, certainly,” Molly agrees quietly, walking beside him. “I do hope he’s alright.”

“Of course he’s alright,” John says automatically, looking at her with a furrowed brow. “Is something wrong, Molly?”

She waves a hand as she gets into the cab first, dismissive. “Nothing, really. I’m okay,” she assures him, closing the door as she does.

John feels his senses on alert at that, again. He leans back in his seat when he finally gets in, but he hasn’t quite relaxed in a cab since Sherlock’s encounter with Moriarty’s cabbie. One could never take chances when you were an associate, and he had learned that rather forcefully over the last few months of their friendship. “Remind me about that coffee when we’re in the flat,” he says to her after a moment of lulled silence. “I think we’ve got some new flavour Mrs. Hudson’s tried to bring in, as well.”

Molly smiles. “I’m afraid that was me, John,” she says. “Handed it to him the last time he was at the morgue — poor chap’s really needed it, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” John sighs, looking over, slightly more relaxed. “He hasn’t really been around.”

“Imagine not. Can’t be safe,” she folds her hands in her lap, looking out the window. “Has he said? Why you’re taking me there?”

John considers that for a moment, and then he realises that he hasn’t even thought to ask, moving exactly as Sherlock has instructed him. Not questioning, that would just slow things down with an explanation that wasn’t absolutely necessary. “No,” he admitted quietly, berating himself. “Is that classified?”

She laughs then, tired, but it feels halfway genuine now. “No, but I think he might claim it was,” she offers. “I’m here to find a body.”

“A... body?” John clarifies, and Molly nods. “Whatever does he need a body for?”

“Well. You’ll see,” she says, just as the cab pulls up beside the flat. John doesn’t quite pursue the conversation, but he pays the cabbie and steps out with some suspicion obvious in his eyes. He leads her up without really seeing if she’s following, but the footsteps just after his tell him that she takes his lead closely. Can’t risk anything in Sherlock’s house, apparently, from the way she moves.

A sound of a muffled scream has them both on alert, though, John spreading his arms as if to defend her on instinct, taking a step back down as he looks back at her. They wait in the silence but no other sound comes, and John tries to take another step up the stairs. He keeps his footsteps light in his wariness, his growing unease, going up until he’s just at the top and—

“For the love of God,” Irene is saying, looking distinctly ruffled as she is forced to tug the bonds slightly tighter, the struggling woman in the chair snapping her attention to him as he steps into the flat. John doesn’t quite freak out the same way an ordinary man would, but the reaction certainly isn’t at all normal as he comes to pull Irene’s hand away from the rope.

“What in the bloody _hell_ are you doing?” He demands of her. 

Molly is watching, horrified at the door, when John turns to look between Irene and the woman; the woman and Molly, and it’s all too bloody confusing until his phone is buzzing — all of that seems to pause for a moment as he exhales tightly, walking off to pick it up.

“John Watson,” he answers with a hand on his hip. Irene seems to pause and walks over to listen, arms folded as she regards him. Molly seems frozen for a moment, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as she looks at them all. 

Thankfully, the voice is smooth and reassuring as it comes through on the line. “How are you, John?” He says, almost as if he’s amused. “I trust you’ve got Miss Hooper with you.”

He doesn’t suppress the frustration in his voice as he turns around, ignoring Irene in favour of pacing around the flat. “Sherlock, I hope you know what you’re doing, because this is _ridiculous_. You’ve kidnapped a woman they’re going to think you’re going to kill, this is hardly helping your case—”

“John.” One word, calm and firm, and John comes to an almighty halt as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“ _Alright_ ,” he finally says, his eyes opening to see the woman in the chair again, her eyes wide and fearful as she follows him around the room, begging him to let her go, to help her, _anything_. “Lay it on me, and be quick, for the love of God. Tell me what to do.”

“So very sorry for this,” Sherlock says, not quite following John’s feeble instructions as he continues on. “I’ll have to be out for another few days, and I require her assistance. Don’t suppose you could host her?”

“Irene Adler?”

He can hear Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile. “The woman in the chair.”

The first thing he thinks is to ask how the _hell_ Sherlock knows she’s been tied to a chair, but he figures that the detective probably gave explicit instruction to it. Why? “No, not at all,” John says dryly, giving Irene a look as she purses her lips. “What do you need?”

“Have Molly get a look at her, and make sure she’s comfortable. I’d do it myself, but I’m off to visit a friend,” Sherlock says, and his voice is slightly harried and sped up as he begins again. “Thank you, John. Hope you’re well.”

Before John can even get a proper word in, Sherlock has hung up, and he groans as he drops the phone from his ear. He wants to throw his phone at someone or punch a wall; Sherlock _frustrates_ him so, sometimes. Irene folds her arms expectantly and Molly finally gains her voice back enough to point at the woman in front of her. “John?” she asks by way of question, looking almost lightheaded while she grips the banister.

“Your subject,” John supplies.

“Oh,” Molly says, sounding a bit faint. “I’ll take that coffee now, please.”

+

"Your ideal vintage luxury apartments," John tests the words with a stuffy accent, improvising the tagline he’d seen on the website when he’d researched Annette’s address as he declares, mostly to himself, "For all your pretentious rich sorts with the added flair of glitzy shiny bits and dreadful carpeting. My word."

He glances surreptitiously at his watch, taking in the date. Four days since he’d last heard from Sherlock, who had suggested John wait a few days before visiting the March Hare if he wanted to resume his investigation. John believes he’s waited long enough; he needs to get answers, and needs to find Sherlock and get a handle on where the fool detective is before his recklessness gets him in trouble.

As he’d told Irene, he watches out for Sherlock, because Sherlock doesn’t truly watch after himself. It isn’t coddling, not when Sherlock desperately needs the attention, not when he could be wasted at the bottom of a drain by this point drugged up to his eyeballs. 

He turns the corner to the street where her posh apartment is supposedly located. There’s a telltale flash of red and blue, but he advances with slow steps and frown on his face. Something’s obviously wrong and John’s taken aback, then, when he registers the countless police cars parked haphazardly on the road just outside the entrance surrounding the lavish waterfall. 

Past the foyer, Lestrade’s talking to a very harassed-looking woman behind the counter of the reception. John makes a beeline for him, setting his jaw in a determined line. “Inspector Lestrade!”

Lestrade looks up at the mention of his name, and he looks like he’s about to smile for an instant at seeing John in such a familiar situation, but then his face hardens as they both recall the current circumstances. His tone when he speaks to John next is curt. “Doctor Watson,” he greets stiffly, suspicion crossing his expression briefly. “What brings you here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.” He’s pretty sure his lie is smooth, because it isn’t like the area is very far out of the way. “I saw the cars, and there was a bit of a ruckus down the road. I didn’t expect to see you here, to be sure.”

“Right.” Lestrade’s grim and not exactly persuaded. “Annette Scarlett’s dead. We believe that Sherlock’s responsible; he’s visited her, and we’ve seen CCTV footage.”

Of course she’s dead. Moriarty is efficient. “Irrefutable evidence,” John contributes.

“Well, yes,” Lestrade agrees reluctantly, if only because he’s surprised John handed him that statement in the first place, sounding like he’s speaking against Sherlock. “Look, John. I know we didn’t part on the best of terms the last time we saw each other—” 

John very pointedly looks away from Lestrade. 

It doesn’t escape Lestrade’s notice, and he clears his throat.  “Have you seen Sherlock? I know you’re not likely to volunteer any information against him, but this is important. Three murders now, all linked to him. I can’t just dismiss it, the public is clamouring for some kind of _answer._ ”

John understands that, to an extent, but a part of him feels a bitter clench at Lestrade’s easy resignation to Sherlock’s position, as if what Sherlock had done for the force amounted to nothing. “Honestly?” He looks to Lestrade, who nods, just this side of eager. “I really haven’t seen him.”

Looking disappointed, Lestrade sighs and leans against the reception counter, his usual gray blazer rumpled in a way that suggests he’s not had much sleep in days. John would feel sorry for him, but he’s more worried about Sherlock at the moment. “Very well, John,” Lestrade says. “I’ll see you around.” 

Nodding in farewell, John casts one last look at the apartment lobby and the cars there before he blatantly sneaks past reception and up to the area where the lifts are. He’s in an unremarkable old brown coat today that’ll hardly attract any attention, he reasons, none of them are going to notice that he’s moved through until he’s already left.

He’s just stepped out of the lift when he receives a call. Relief and indignation swamp him at once when he recognises the sequence of numbers. Instead of bursting into a tirade about how four days is hardly an acceptable time to go missing because Sherlock would probably just huff in amusement and ignore his disgruntled mutterings, he says: “I suppose you’ve heard.”

“I have, yes.” Sherlock’s more to the point these days than ever, and John isn’t sure that he likes that. He almost misses the usual flavour of discourse, but he pushes that aside for now.  “3G comes in handy. I’d come if I could to inspect the scene, but we both know that’s not plausible right now.”

“Not particularly,” John says dryly, and he imagines Sherlock grinning.

“Right. I know you’re around the area; if you know, that means you’ve been in the vicinity within the last hour or are still there. I need samples of anything that might seem suspicious; things that could’ve contributed to her cause of death, things like that.”

John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, I’ve been to _countless_ crime scenes with you. Where’s the step-by-step manual?”

“You know what to do, John.” Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat, not at all bothered.

His sarcasm’s just flown over Sherlock’s head, but it doesn’t matter now. “I do.”

“In that case...” A pause. “Take care, John. I’ll be returning soon. Mycroft’s got a handle on something for me, and I’ll have to have a look at the samples next time we see each other.”

“Next time, yes.” He misses Sherlock, rather. Thorn in the side he may be at times, but Sherlock makes good company, and a good friend. John finds that he doesn’t want to hang up just yet, because it’s been so long since he’s heard from him, all the while ignoring the little voice that sounds suspiciously like Irene in his head that whispers, ‘Denial!’ “You take care too, Sherlock.”

He moves carefully around the bright yellow caution tapes while pulling a pair of gloves on, ducking and pushing them gently out of the way. The scene’s neat, and the only semblance of disorder that hints that something is wrong is the body, sprawled awkwardly on the floor in death.

The fish tank behind the couch is oddly void of fish, though. The water’s clear and the artificial seaweed bobs gently in the pumping, recycled water, but there’s no activity in it otherwise. There are boxes of feed next to the tank, so John is certain that Annette didn’t keep an empty tank around just because, or even for decoration’s sake. 

He moves closer, inspecting it. Nothing else is out of place here, but a fish tank without fish? That doesn’t make sense.

John peers over the top of the tank, and he feels a certain level of glee when his observations have been proven significant: the bright tropical fishes are all dead, floating ominously on the surface of the water. Their beady eyes are glassy, and it’s bloody unnerving. 

He takes a sample of the water, and leaves.

+

After he has assured Molly that John is on his way — one cannot be completely confident that John will stay put without someone to distract him, and Sherlock knows this far too well for his own good. There is an odd sense of guilt that tells him John deserves the truth, but he the game is on — and he knows, too, that John will be in danger if he allows himself to slip too long.

They’ve taken a break, and he knows Mycroft is just outside as he speaks to the group of them; He probably owes him a tea-time visit one of these days, Sherlock admits to himself as he steps under the caution tape, toward the body lying open-mouthed in the middle of the room. This one doesn’t _quite_ point to him the same way the others do, but he suspects there’s more than enough information against him to get him convicted of all the above.

Annette’s hair is unusually mussed as she lies in the centre of the room, but the smirk that was on her lips before her jaw fell open is still intact. He pulls on the latex gloves as he inspects the bruising on her neck, obviously post-mortem, but it’s not like anyone on the team will have seen that _just_ yet. What of her murder had they deduced, then?

He looks over to the bowl with the dead fish, searching for the source of the poison — there seemed to be an alternate explanation, since Annette had been out of her room for several days before she had suddenly turned up dead in that space. Perhaps they hadn’t been fed — but Sherlock has just caught sight of something in the feed that John had been sharing with him, and he is ready to have a look now.

His fingers grope around in the bowl for a moment before he finally finds it and tugs it free, a hastily concealed teabag hidden under some stones. While completely possible that it is nothing of importance, he turns it in his fingers and sniffs it — even wet and clouded in the stench of the tank, the smell is off and nothing like the flavour he had come to remember. It doesn’t smell like tea at _all._

Standing with the bag tucked safely into an evidence pocket, he looks around the room a bit more carefully. If Annette pulled the tags off at her table, the supply must be somewhere near it — where is her box of tea bags, then? He keeps his touch light as he moves over to the table, pulling a drawer open, and then another, and another — until he finally finds it, pausing for a moment.

Oh. _Oh,_ of course, because he had dismissed it so early to be irrelevant. Of course he had missed this, the markings of the substances that were travelling through England. They were subtle, only for those in the society, so of _course_ they would have a symbol: a code of sorts as a warning bell to anyone who was about to take the wrong bag, to steep it in water and consume something meant to kill. Spores, maybe, he figures — if it really is a mushroom, he amends mentally.

Black labels with a red crest; the exact same as the Caterpillar’s letterhead, sprawled out into the drawer — labels littering the drawer, and they’re all echoing a certain symbol that he certainly remembers. He picks them fresh out of the drawer, and turns them — the crest is ordinary on labels for the ordinary tea, probably, and the tell-tale marking for the substance; something hallucinogenic, _that_ could have been fungal as well.

He is almost sure that he has seen it already, however — a symbol that he must have seen on the first body, something that he barely remembers now. It’s almost troubling how Sherlock cannot remember it now, not at all filed properly into his mind palace, but he lets it alone and sets it aside. Taking a photo instead and sending it along to his brother, he replaces it all and slips two different bags with him as he makes his way toward 221B. Sherlock has a guest, and it would only be rude to keep them waiting.

+

“Tea.” Irene comments, sounding unconvinced, squinting as she holds the small bag tightly between her gloved fingers to look closer at it. “Points for ingenuity, I suppose. Providing authenticity, too, you say?”

He takes out the other one with the black label. “The differences between both teabags are there; if you’re not someone who’s only masquerading as a member of the group, you’ll know how to look for them. One of them isn’t... exactly going to make you a cup of tea you’ll be able to enjoy for long.”

“I suppose not.” She snorts. “Perhaps they brief new members during initiation rites. It’s actually a good way to go about that, because people usually suspect the water and not the teabags, especially if they’re going to be selecting the teabags themselves.”

Sherlock smirks, glad that she caught onto that quickly. Infuriating as Irene may be at times, she has a sharp mind that he values immensely. “Precisely that.”

“I highly doubt that’s all you had to inform me.” She takes off her coat, letting it fall in a soft tumble to hang off the edge of the sofa. “Who are we waiting for?”

He places the teabags into a small bowl, away from their own cups of tea. Sherlock doesn’t remark upon Irene’s noticing the third, empty cup he’d placed next to the pot; he’d expected her to. “We’re going to receive a rather important instrument.”

“An instrument?” Irene echoes. 

“You’ll see. Ah, here he comes now.”

As if he’d sensed they were somehow talking about him, Mycroft shows up at that very moment.

Strolling in without preamble, he clicks the door shut behind him and seats himself down without so much as a how do you do. “I have it,” Mycroft informs them, clipped, pouring himself some tea. “Any biscuits to go with this?”

“Not so concerned about your figure any longer, Mycroft?” Sherlock jibes. 

Irene lets out a giggle, plays along. “I’m so envious,” she drawls. “It takes so much for a girl to keep in shape. How _do_ you do it?”

Mycroft ignores them both, pulling something out from within the folds of his suit. “Zalman Stein’s pocketwatch. Word has it you’re after it,” he drawls, almost lazy as he holds it out. 

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile as he swipes it out of Mycroft’s hand, flipping it open and holding it up into the nearest light. “Seems like gossip’s good for something, at least.”

“Just as you thought?” Mycroft asks, when Sherlock’s smile widens, eyes brightening as he registers the crest engraved on the back of the pocketwatch, exquisite curls and lines. “That’s the crest you were talking about.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, triumphant. He snaps it shut and twirls the chain about his fingers, wondering absently how much force it’d take to break it, to have the tiny links fall to the floor like snow. “And the maker?”

Mycroft hums, passing him a slip of paper with an address scribbled elegantly on it. “You know what to do.”

Sherlock skims it, and then passes it over to Irene, placing the pocketwatch in the clasp of her small fingers as well. “How about it? I’m sure a woman of your considerable talents won’t have a problem discussing these matters of importance with an enigmatic, mysterious watchmaker linked to — ah, deeper, darker things, if you will,” he says, affecting a dramatic narrator’s tone.

Irene closes her hand around the pocketwatch, tracing the crest, before she looks up to meet his eyes, accepting his unspoken challenge. 

“You know me,” she says, winking at Mycroft after that, slipping the piece of paper into her studded clutch. “I like them _dangerous._ ”

+

There’s a gentle ring of bells when Irene nudges the door inwards, palm smoothing over the dark mahogany of it, rich and refined. The shop is quaint and classy, if a little disorganised, clocks hanging on the walls, bright in their light. A classical piece, a symphony of sorts, carries over to where she’s taking in the sights near the counter; the violin’s emotive and sweet, providing a sense of warmth and longing in this shop of rich wooden walls and intricate clocks of all sizes.

Mesmerised by the swelling crescendo of music, Irene rubs the back of her knuckles against the glass face of a smaller variation of a grandfather clock that comes up to her height before she moves on to study a wonderful cuckoo clock next to it, the pendulum that sways below it keeping time. The detailing on all of these clocks are marvelous, just like the pocketwatch she has in her hand; whoever this watch and clockmaker is, he’s quite possibly one of the best in his field, if not _the_ best.

She draws back a little in surprise, feeling the ice-cold shock of it when she notices the Wonderland crest engraved on the pendulum of the cuckoo clock. Stepping back, she turns around and suddenly starts seeing echoes of it in the clocks around the room, everywhere; elements of the swirl, the leaves curling around the edges of a clock’s face, and the magpies looking accusingly back at her.

The music stops, abruptly, and the store falls into a sinister state of quietude but for the steady, eerie ticking of the clocks. They’re all synchronised but for one or two she can pinpoint that are out of the pattern, creating a maddening disparity between ticks that is slowly throwing her off her rhythm the more she listens to it. 

It’s intentional, she thinks, feeling the discomfort claw at her, something that gives the owner of this establishment an edge over his customers. She can feel it, see it in how the shop is built, elevated just a little where the counter and door to the back of the store is so that whoever is handling the shop at any given time is positioned higher than the patrons. It’s subtle, the implications of how elusive this ageless, opulent business is, and the kind of customers they expect: commanding, ruthless players; leaders with their intoxicating power and monopoly over their fields, over the people, participating in perilous games of power.

She’s not sure she likes it, bristling automatically at the idea of someone holding dominion over her, wanting to gain the upper hand. Fine, she decides to herself. She’s not The Woman for nothing; she’ll play the watchmaker right back, and get what she wants.

“May I help you?” An old man shuffles out from behind the store, right on cue, smartly dressed. He’s smiling at her, expression closed. He looks her up and down, not blatantly, a tactful kind of assessment. Irene smiles pleasantly back at him in response, stifling the urge to chuckle upon seeing the monocle perched over his left eye. A _monocle,_ of all things _._ He eventually meets her eyes, a grudging kind of approval and acceptance in his face, as if she’s met some set of standards he’s prepared for his clients. 

Irene had dressed up specially for this occasion, a dark satin cocktail dress bringing out the pale colour of her skin, folds shimmering as it reflects light off the jade-green. She looks every bit like a lady of high standing, and she’s very aware of it, confidence bleeding through her every pore with just a hint of condescension the way she’s picked up from some of her clients who were higher up on the social ladder. She knows she’s got him hook, line, and sinker when he bows respectfully, just a jot, and waits for her to speak.

Affecting laughter, she smiles and takes the pocketwatch gently out of her clutch, wrapped in a swath of red velvet. “I thought I’d come and see you, Henry,” she says mildly, eyes crinkling at the edges as she turns on the charm, weaving lies into her words effortlessly. “I was in the area, and I thought I’d ask if you could take a look at the watch, see how it’s holding up and if I need to bring it around for maintenance or anything. Dreadful when you forget the little things.”

The use of his given name seems to soften him, the sharper edge of his smile fading. “Of course,” he says, and he gives no indication as to whether he’s sensed her deception for what it is. He takes the pocketwatch from her, opening it slowly like he’s coaxing a lover, and Irene feels, absurdly, as though she’s intruding upon a private moment as he examines the machinery. 

“Lady Rabbit,” he acknowledges later, the barest hint of surprise in his voice. Not suspicion; Irene’s glad of that. “Forgive me,” the man adds after, as if he had been mentally reviewing his words. “It’s just... I was always under the impression you were a male, since we’ve never met in person. You’ve never seen the need to come here, before.”

Irene keeps her poker face on, furiously working through ways she can answer his unspoken questions without directly answering them so as to not give herself away, and wonders if he’s going to be doling out any tests. She decides to go for a sincere approach, certain that she can come up with a plausible excuse should he inquire about aspects of their correspondence that she admittedly has no grasp of. “I changed my mind,” she says, lowering her eyes so that she’s peering at him from beneath her lashes. “Woman of power or not, can’t I have moments to indulge in being contrary?”

He laughs, screwing the back of the pocketwatch back into place as he wipes gently at it with some solution and a cloth on the counter before handing it back to Irene, his hold on his designed watch almost reverent. “Certainly. Everything looks to be in order, milady. I expect you to send the watch over to me in September as you always do for maintenance. Or, since you’ve paid me a visit and hopefully liked the look of my humble establishment, you could come by with the watch for the tinkering session so that I’ll give it back to you after, good as new, as I always do. Wonderland has priority compared to some of my other customers.”

Frankly, Irene’s slightly disappointed that her lies spilled over so easily; she’d expected the watchmaker’s arrogance and defenses to be more impenetrable. Still, it works in her favour. She smiles again, anyway. “I suppose I could, Henry. While we’re on the subject, I’m afraid I have grave news.” Irene holds up the teabag label, the one with the hint of red.  “The Hare is dead.”

Henry’s expression doesn’t change. “That’s sad to hear,” he says. He doesn’t sound sad at all, and shrugs, turning to look right at her. “The Cat has always killed as he fancies, a terrible shame.”

+

He taps away at his phone for a moment before he tucks it into his pocket, steepling his fingers as he continues to pace. Sherlock doesn’t like this, not the information that Irene’s just sent along. An odd sense of time, and the Hatter still sits back in her chair, silent and wary as she tracks him with her eyes. “I’ve told you,” she finally whispers again, raspy from the dehydration. “I _don’t_ know.”

“That’s rather the thing, you see,” he responds without missing a beat. “The Hare believed otherwise, before she died.”

That seems to silence her for a moment, and it’s the first sign of recognition that she has shown in over three hours of prompting. Her eyes clear in a flicker, and she sits slightly forward. “Annette?” she asks him. “What did she say?”

He picks up on that, the slight dilation of a pupil — boring, really, and she sits closer to him at the sudden mention of someone she obviously values far too much. Sentiment, as he has proved time and time again, _is_ a chemical defect and he finds himself less able to accept that anything like that could even be viable and practical in any way

(Sherlock markedly doesn’t think of John, or Mrs. Hudson, or Molly.) 

He calculates his next response, looking her over again. “She said that you had a good share of information,” he enunciates his words carefully. “That you’d be able to help me. Was she wrong?” 

“No, of course not—” she begins immediately, and then she bristles. “I— _no,_ no. I’ve said I don’t know, Alice!”

“How did you get involved?” he asks her, pausing his steps to look at her a bit more clearly now. The word hungs unspoken between them: _Wonderland._ “How? Where was it, some kind of meeting place?”

“I— It was a long time ago, I don’t remember,” she says, but it’s glaringly obvious that she’s calling the memory to mind, shadows behind her eyes as she looks at him. “You can’t expect me—”

“Was it her?” he asks her, cutting her off as he grabs a chair, smoothly turning it once, twice, and then setting it down as he looks at her.  “Annette.”

Caitlyn presses her lips tightly together as she stares at him, caught out, and he chuckles darkly as he leans forward. Propping his elbows on his knees, he challenges her with another look. “So it was.” He smirks a bit. “ _Love_ , was it?”

How foolish.

“Nothing like that,” she protests, struggling against her bonds just slightly. “Nothing like that at all. None of us would be so _stupid_ to go, not if we had a choice.”

“So, a threat of some kind,” Sherlock says pensively, and she seems to realise belatedly that she has given away far more than she is supposed to. Silencing herself deliberately? Sherlock sighs and leans forward another notch, his eyes still prying into her every move. “What, to your life— no, this must’ve been bigger. Not when you’ve volunteered to die.”

“Let’s say that _hypothetically,_ ” he continues, watching for her reaction. “Annette invited you. Would you go?” He asks it pleasantly, sitting back as he regards her. “You’d follow her every word.”

She has frozen over as he speaks of Annette, and he sees that her eyebrow is twitching slightly as he goes on. A suppressed impulse, and the shape tells of an artificial routine that isn’t hers, something that tells him she has already been arranged by an external party for this confrontation. “Perhaps, he threatened _her_ life?”

“No,” she denies immediately before she can stop herself, eyes wide and sweat starting to break out on her brow as she looks at him. Sherlock gives her a look to continue, raising an eyebrow as he considers her, but she doesn’t provide beyond that — choosing, instead, to fall silent again. The resolve behind the way she says it, however, betrays the lie in the fear of her eyes, and Sherlock knows that he has found it.

“Annette’s going to die anyway. What a shame,” he says, riling her, and she tenses dangerously. “Isn’t it? You tried to protect her.”

“ _He_ couldn’t protect her, either. _Wouldn’t._ That bastard,” she spits, squeezing her eyes shut as she finally whispers out her answer, more to herself than to anyone else. Sherlock hears her anyway, but she doesn’t betray more fear beyond that. “He said he would help defend her, to keep her safe from the clutches of... he _lied_. He was _late!_ ”

“The Rabbit?” He hadn’t thought of Stein’s involvement, not with her. She seemed too far out of his reach, but it seemed that they might have established an odd sense of camaraderie regardless of their history. What of that? 

She lifts her eyes to his at the mention of the Rabbit, but she certainly doesn’t seem to be in agreement. Instead her eyes are wide, and she seems to be smiling ruefully as she struggles again. “Vowed it to me, too, he did,” she says, talking at him more than to; slightly crazed, certainly, as befits her title. “Over his pipe and everything.”

Mad Hatter. Poetic; he’ll give Moriarty that. The mention of the pipe seems a clue, and it piques his interest enough. Clement, then, not the Rabbit. Caterpillar, even if he hasn’t a proper record of his marriage that Sherlock could trace. 

“The Caterpillar’s pipe?” The one that had driven her to desperate terror in her flat?

“‘Eat me’, it said, I couldn’t have known!” She seems to beg someone he cannot see, and Sherlock feels her lose her focus. Instead of letting her veer off, however, he shifts his chair closer to her. “The Caterpillar — no, who vowed it to you? Protection of the Hare?”

“Swore he’d protect her— ‘ _for the rest of my days_ ’,” she seems to remember as her mind jumps, whispering it again as she drops her head into her lap, her hands clutching at her messy, blond hair, not at all the picture of refined glamour and breathtaking talent she depicts in all her concert programs, on the stage under the golden lights before her adoring crowds.  “Didn’t he? Before _God?_ He promised!” She’s shouting now. “I’ll never forgive him!”

Sherlock finds himself lost for a moment as he thinks about it. She shakes her head, starting to cry, terse as she sits in her bindings. Caitlyn’s eyes are lost, glazed over, and she mumbles. “He promised she would be safe,” she repeats stubbornly, vaguely, but Sherlock already knows that he can no longer extract anything remotely useful from her.

“Listen,” he steadies her, and she barely seems to recognise him as she meets his eyes. “Caitlyn, right?”

“Alice,” she smiles lazily, her mind blanking from her previous terror, all peaceful as she seems to not remember at all. Sherlock suppresses his curiosity at the workings of her mind instead of questioning her, but he requires her help and cannot afford for her to be completely wasted. Not if he is to _win_. 

He needs to win, or he’ll lose everything.

“What can I do for you? Hmm?” Caitlyn prompts him, almost playful.

“I need you to look at something for me,” he says loosely, and he leans back. “Could you?”

“Might require a looking-glass for that,” she chuckles. 

He feigns a smile in response, and pulls his phone out again. 

_On the way. Do ready a coffee, if you would._

_SH_

+

Sherlock opens the door, and a draft blows in as Caitlyn steps warily past him. He clears his throat and switches on the lights. “As I’ve asked you previously, I’ve a few bodies I need you to identify.”

She doesn’t speak, and Molly is already waiting there in the corner as he looks over to her. Caitlyn waits, fidgeting, as Molly unzips the bodies, an obvious expression of disapproval on her face as Sherlock steps up to them, making sure that they are indeed what they pretend to be. He turns a smile over his shoulder, and Caitlyn takes a cautious step forward to the first.

She peers at his face, but the recognition is obvious — instead, she seems to be inspecting a spot on his face, and she eventually lets it go, considering it unimportant. “Rabbit,” she confirms, and she taps his nose. “ _Late_.”

Sherlock nods and smiles encouragingly, leading her to the second and leaving her to look it over. He calls Molly to come closer, and she steps up quietly to his side. “Sherlock, I can’t do _everything_ you said, but I can—”

He hushes her with a finger to his lips, but he nods. She looks over to the last one in the corner, not yet in a bag. Just under a cloth, really, and it looks vaguely untreated from the way the foot sticks out from a carelessly folded edge. Caitlyn seems to notice it then, too, and Molly sighs. “That’s the latest one. The dark-haired man, the one in the papers with your name sprawled on it,” she offers with her hands dug nervously into her pockets.

“Perfect,” he says to her, and he moves to give Caitlyn a word of encouragement — praising her for identifying the Caterpillar, too, because this requires her absolute concentration and nothing less. Sherlock needs her to focus, and she must be irrevocably clear on _this._

Sherlock pulls the sheet off the last body with a cautious slowness, and Caitlyn stills, an abrupt stop that chills the room. The white comes off, revealing the closed eyes of Annette, dark hair flowing around her. She’s pale, too pale, a little unreal, but beautiful still. A dying star, flickering out of existence, Sherlock muses. Apt.

“Annette,” Caitlyn says hoarsely, in a voice that’s unlike her own. The dreamy mistiness to her voice is gone, replaced by dawning horror and disbelief. Sherlock braces himself; he doesn’t expect this to bide over well.

He forces a consolatory expression on his face, balancing remorse, regret and sorrow like a potent cocktail of emotions. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s not, not really, not when these laughing players of Wonderland have yanked him about like a doll. He says it, anyway, because he has to see what she does next, what Caitlyn will do, and how she might draw Moriarty out from here. “By the time they found her...”

But she’s hardly listening as she steps forward toward the body — Molly starts forward at that, not wanting her to handle anything, but she keeps her feet planted to the ground as she watches. Caitlyn rests a hand on her face before she closes it into a fist, her head bowed low for a moment. Sherlock waits, still, for the right time to move, but she doesn’t offer him an opportunity in her stillness.

Eventually, however, he gets impatient, and he reaches out to touch her carefully on her shoulder. Instead of a sob or some other kind of grief he expects, she flinches at his touch and she closes into herself, shrinking back and looking up at him. Her eyes this time aren’t empty, nor are they filled with the same curiosity she had been gazing around with when he had first found her in the flat; they’re are determined, and she’s pressed her lips together so hard they’ve gone white.

It takes her a minute, but she eventually gets her words back and she parts her lips, a low sound as she fixes her attention on Sherlock, so tense that her shoulders are trembling. “He _promised_ ,” she echoes from earlier, and Sherlock affects a sigh as he makes to comfort her. Before he can get a word in, however, Caitlyn’s eyes are back on Annette’s face, and she pulls her hand back from the pale skin as if burned.

Sherlock isn’t sure he completely understands, but he gives her a second as he attempts to gauge her reaction. Her eyes flicker to the closed eyes of the corpse, to him — and even to Molly, just a considering look, before he realises he’s made a crucial mistake.

Because she turns, and she breaks into a run. 

Sherlock hasn’t completely processed that she’s left until she’s cleared the door, and he pushes past her to get out through the hospital, not _caring_ if he’s seen — because he is about to ‘kill’ this woman, he has the feeling already, and he may as well feed it while it kept him safe from any other kind of suspicion. Caitlyn, however, is fast, and she runs clear ahead of him as she makes her way through corridors, her blonde hair barely in order any longer as she desperately keeps her lead.

He grits his teeth as he pursues her, letting her take the turn with a bit of a stumble, slamming her shoulder into the wall as she climbs the stairs, rushing. Sherlock takes that advantage and takes them three at a time, always falling just behind her as he steps up toward the roof — barely grasping the material of her skirt, slipping through his fingers as he attempts to yank her back.

Finally, Sherlock catches on the rail of the stairs, his coat tugging him back to lag just a bit — and he pauses to free himself, letting Caitlyn out of his sight momentarily as she disappears onto the roof. He groans and takes the last few up, stepping into the air of the night, searching for her form in the open floor in front of him. What he sees, however, isn’t _quite_ what he is expecting—

“No, you _swore_!” She’s shouting at someone, and he whips his head around to look for her, the clear voice ringing across in the night. Sherlock comes to an abrupt stop as he inadvertently meets the eyes of the small man restricting her, all smiles and wide, innocent eyes. Caitlyn’s words cut the air again, however, and Sherlock’s attention is shifted. “You told me— Let me _go._ ”

“That _is_ the point,” her attacker is saying to her, turning them so she is standing just at the edge again, and Caitlyn’s voice hitches in panic again. She’s protesting in an almost rhythmic prayer, held just there, just in Sherlock’s reach, but he knows that if he takes a single step forward her body will drop off the edge. “Now, smile. Alice is looking, didn’t I teach you better?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says smoothly, trying to divert his attention enough to save the Hatter — at least let her live, may as well when he had been planning her substitute already. “I suppose the Queen sits atop the throne of this game.”

He looks over his shoulder, a lazy glance as he leans back with the woman still in his arms. “Hmm? Oh, no, that isn’t me — although, I must say, I look far better in that crown than she does. Too many of them, too many _heads_ to get it on.”

Caitlyn screams as Jim’s hand over her mouth slips, and he slaps her tightly before he muffles her again. Her eyes are wide and fearful, but the sounds cease as Jim turns her to the edge again. “Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?” He asks her, holding her hands around her with a smile as he pushes her ever closer, hooking his own ankle on the ledge as he takes a ridiculous risk.

Sherlock takes another step forward. “Poe wrote on them both,” he says, dancing around them so he can get a better, more assured look that Caitlyn won’t topple herself over, and he will be able to grab her without risking his own life. Or his knees, he amends absently. 

Moriarty lets out a laugh at that one, tipping his head back again. “Just so, Sherly boy. You’ve gone entirely bonkers.”

“You’re insane, too,” he replies with some smoothness, stepping within reach now.

“And you’re just getting that _now_ ,” Jim sighs, almost disappointed as he looks over. “The Mad Tea Party, and Alice is late! Tut-tut.”

“There wasn’t an invitation,” he says, and then Caitlyn begins to struggle again. Jim sighs, long-suffering, and he turns her arms so he stands calmly on the edge, upright, holding her body at an angle as she leans over nothing at all, the street below her. “Don’t be rude, Miss Hatter.”

She looks at him, and she claws at his arms. “No, _please_. You can’t— Who are you?” She begins to sob, and she scrabbles at his suit for a good grip, only to find herself slipping further down. Jim looks over to Sherlock for a moment, all wound up and ready to spring forward and catch her. 

“It’s only fun if they scream,” he says to Sherlock, and he yanks her just enough to jolt her body, slipping her heels just a bit further down and pulling a blood-curdling scream from her. Sherlock doesn’t have to look down to know that an audience has probably gathered, and she will clatter down both on the sidewalk and into the arms of the public below. “You know, I expected you to be a tad earlier. You’ve only got another good twelve hours before the last, and then the game’s over and I win.”

The challenge riles him enough for him to step forward, and Jim releases her wrists in a swift motion that leaves her barely hanging onto his sleeves, tugging hard, fingers slipping. “Tick-tock, Alice,” Moriarty’s playfulness drops, and he gives Sherlock a look as he tosses over the pocket-watch he must have been sent by the watchmaker. The crest remains on the back, the magpie, and Sherlock furrows his brow. 

“I owe you a fall, Sherlock,” he says, and then Caitlyn is falling, her fingers desperately reached upward, her eyes wide and the scream ricocheting loudly enough for the crowd to look up, anticipating her drop, some training their eyes on Sherlock’s face. 

When he looks back up onto the roof, Moriarty is gone.

+

“Hatter’s dead. Meet me near Baker Street,” Sherlock manages to tell John while trying to catch his breath, his feet thudding and echoing against the stairs as he climbs up, up, _up_. He covers long distances quickly, but there’s just a hiccup of a struggle when you’re trying to talk and always _thinking_ at the same time. “Behind the next block, the one with the dodgy alley and the red brick wall.”

“Sherlock!” John yells over the phone, before Sherlock hangs up on him and stuffs his mobile roughly back into his pocket, grabbing onto the railings to propel him forward. It’s probably nothing urgent, he vaguely suspects John wanted to shout at him to be careful and to not do anything stupid in his haste. Oh, well. Circumnavigation is often necessary to get the job done.

He reaches the roof, heart pounding in his ears, and does a quick visual sweep of the area. There’s nothing out of place, nothing that he can see that seems remotely threatening from Moriarty or the police, the absolute normalcy almost throwing him off-kilter. Sherlock spots John running towards the alley in question now, and then he looks up and their eyes meet in the urgency. John skids to a halt and starts gesticulating wildly with his hands, as if willing Sherlock to understand his bungled attempt at signing before giving up and taking his phone out to presumably call Sherlock instead. Sure enough, his phone’s vibrating in his pocket before long; Sherlock ignores it and decides on the quickest route — some jumping across to the next building to save time so he doesn’t have to work around the corner of the road that’s under construction right now.

Sherlock doesn’t even think about it when he presses back against the balls of his feet and begins to build a momentum as he runs, focusing entirely on the building opposite and determinedly not thinking about the sizeable gap between the two blocks. He thinks he hears John cry out in alarm (and wouldn’t that be rich, starting to hear things when he’s all the way up here) and then he jumps, hands lashing out to grab at the holds at the edge of the building to haul himself up.

Laughing now from the adrenaline and being absurdly and irrationally proud that he can _still_ clear that distance from a height, Sherlock continues running down the fire escape, the stairs whining and teetering dangerously under him, and then he sees John coming towards him, face like a storm.

"What is wrong with you, Sherlock?" John hisses, alarm stamped all over his features, his eyes wide in disbelief. "You could've died!" His fingers are tight, an unforgiving grip on Sherlock's arm, and it's the most comforting feeling in the whole world.  

High from the running, from the sheer exhilaration of being alive, warmth bubbles in Sherlock as his face shifts into a smile. "John," he breathes, in relief and surprise, in joy. "John."

"Yes, I've got it, you're pleased to see me." Sherlock thinks John looks as pleased as he's sure he himself does, too, and John's lips twitch in affirmation of that. "Were you even thinking when you jumped from that building? What if you'd fallen—"

Sherlock pats John's hand on his arm. John's loosened his grip somewhat, presumably from relief. "It wouldn't have happened. I calculated the distance perfectly and the jump was entirely plausible."

John jerks suddenly and turns to look at him, expression incredulous. Sherlock just looks back, unsure as to what prompted that abrupt movement from him. They lock eyes like that for a moment, and John sighs. "You really think that, don't you, what with your making accurate split-second decisions and all that? No hesitation about jumping across to another building, you moron?"

Sherlock smiles audaciously. “Possibly about as much hesitation you’ve got about shooting serial killers from another building, losing the game or no.” 

Bracing himself against the wall of an alley, John is startled into a laugh. "Touché. Mind, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Not in the slightest."

Sherlock turns, still smiling, shifting back into the easy comfort of their banter easily. “Of course you don’t. It never happened.”

Clearing his throat, John feigns innocence and pulls Sherlock onto the side of the street. “We should — have you eaten?” He finally asks, frightfully mundane as he looks up with another wry smile. 

“No,” Sherlock says. “Chinese?”

“There’re few Chinese restaurants open at this hour,” John remarks, a little admonishing, but he’s grinning. “But, yes. Smashing plan.”

+

__

The roast duck’s good, as always, and Sherlock beams at the waitress when she asks them brusquely if they’re getting anything else once they’re done in the indirect way he’s developed to convey the message that he wants someone to piss off. The girl does so, muttering under her breath, and Sherlock turns back to John to talk to him, putting his cutlery away at the side.

John dabs the side of his mouth with a napkin, and Sherlock chuckles. “You missed a spot.”

“What?”

He nudges his thumb against the napkin, pushing it against the corner of John’s mouth where the little spot of sauce was, and John huffs in good humour. “I don’t need you to do that, you know. You’re the one who needs a minder.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, batting at John’s fingers so he can wipe at John’s mouth properly. “Oh, please. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Sometimes, John, seriously... Look, move over, you still haven’t gotten it... there.”

They laugh together, and then it turns a little awkward when Sherlock pulls back quickly, his face channeled into nonchalance. John coughs, flushing a little and averting his eyes. “So. What do we do, now?”

“Yes.” Sherlock twiddles his phone; there are no new notifications for messages or calls, nothing, because only John knows this number, but he does that more out of habit than anything else. “John, I– We have another eleven hours and forty minutes, if I’m right.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” John’s voice rises in volume. “It’s half-past ten, and you’re telling me your plan’s going to have to be executed in, what, twelve hours? Has the concept of _notice_ escaped you?!”

“Do keep it down,” Sherlock says calmly, but his eyes are steel; he’s serious about this. “I didn’t have a choice. I contacted the Homeless Network, had them help me look for this.” He looks around them, a flashing sweep around the busy restaurant, and pushes a photograph forward on the side of the table where John didn’t tip a small saucer of soy sauce over. “You might remember it. Tad more familiar than I’d like, honestly.”

John looks at the photo, then at Sherlock, narrowing his eyes as if to convey how very unimpressed he is. “Seriously? We already know what the pipe looks like, and that it doesn’t have much relevance to what’s happening.”

“Au contraire.” Sherlock pours himself another small cup of Chinese tea, secretly pleased that it’s steeped long enough that the tea’s a darker orange-yellow now, the bitterness lying like a pleasant taste on his tongue when he brings it to his lips. “Caitlyn — the Hatter, that is — she looked as if she’d seen a ghost when I took the pipe to see her. She thought I was going to kill her when she saw it.”

John makes the link. “Like a warning? A sign, an announcement.”

Nodding, Sherlock exhales, motioning at the disgruntled waitress who’d served them earlier for the bill. She stomps off in a flurry of skirts, gritting out a complaint to her colleague at the counter. “It’s a lead. So if it ends up somewhere else...”

“That’s where your next victim is.”

“Exactly that. But whoever it is, he or she won’t die until I arrive at the scene of the crime. I have to find a way to stave it off or try to make sure they don’t get murdered this time, I have to find a _solution._ At least I know where the pipe is.” 

“It was at the flat.”

“Not anymore.”

“But I just saw—”

“Look at the picture, John.”

John looks, and Sherlock sees recognition sink in when he takes in the visuals of the heraldry, the familiar lettering where the pipe’s placed. 

The Guildhall Library.

+

****

Sherlock has briefly forgotten how big the library is five hours later, rows after rows of windows reflecting the bright morning light; judging from the way John groans next to him, John’s in a similar situation. He takes long, easy strides across the smooth pavement, long coat billowing behind him in a sudden gust of wind. It’s almost dramatic and would altogether be really quite amusing if not for their current circumstances.

“Not to be negative,” John starts, looking around them as they slip inside, taking in the sheer number of people in the space beyond the reception alone, “But how on earth are we going to find someone in this crowd?”

Snorting, Sherlock shakes his head. “We won’t have to worry about that,” he says, stepping right past a tour group, and God knows why they’ve chosen _today_ (of all days!) to add to the bustle in London. “After all, the picture gives us enough clues.”

“Yes, alright, we’re looking for a man with a pipe — but it’s not like we’d stop everyone in this building to ask, ‘Excuse me, mate, but have you seen...?’” John waves his hands around in exasperation, barely keeping pace behind him. 

**__**

Sherlock throws an amused look over his shoulder, and John can’t help but feel small as he falls under that gaze. The one that says something is so glaringly obvious, and he is the last to see it. But really, he adds under his breath, it’s no longer a surprise. Sherlock pulls his phone out and keeps his walk steady, and he chuckles. 

“Here,” he says when he finds he had apparently been looking for, turning to show it to John but not quite slowing as he continues to walk backward. “I took a digital image of it with my mobile. Look a bit closer, left corner — a nameplate, isn’t it? That implies a desk, someone more permanent... A librarian, perhaps? An officer?” He hums thoughtfully, turning back around with a wave of his hand. 

Just as John senses that Sherlock sees something, about to lunge forward in a brisk advance that John can’t hope to keep up with, he grasps the cuff of Sherlock’s coat. “Sherlock, hang on—” He says, and Sherlock turns with a snap so hard that John becomes slightly concerned for his neck. 

“There isn’t _time_ ,” Sherlock argues immediately, resting his own hand on John’s shoulder, obviously begging for some kind of assurance that John understands — that the puzzle must be solved, hadn’t that always been the prime objective for him? That he would outdance Moriarty, finally beating someone worth playing in the game. “There honestly isn’t. What do we have now, an hour?”

“We’re already here—”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock sighs, and he silences himself as he looks up at him. Patiently, he rests his hand above John’s, coaxing him to let go, quietly asking him to release his hold on him. Because this time, he needs to be free enough to move, to take a bloody stupid risk and pull out alive because that’s all that Sherlock Holmes knows how to do. 

John lets go, and Sherlock smiles in relief. It lasts a tad longer than it has to, and the warmth lingers even as he turns his back to continue walking forward. John shakes his head out and runs a hand through his hair. “And what are we looking for?” He finally prompts.

“An office,” Sherlock says, absent as he tries to see above the crowd. “Administration, something of that sort.” His phone buzzes, and Sherlock begins to text hurriedly again. Another moment and Sherlock’s jaw is hardened, as if something’s gone wrong — and John doesn’t like it one bit, not the way he’s looking like he is on the verge of panic. Not now, not when they seem this close to the end. 

“Something wrong?”

“Not in the explicit sense, no,” Sherlock offers him another smile, and then they keep looking deeper into it — finally, Sherlock locates it within another two minutes, brushing off John’s concerned questioning. Letting out an annoyed huff even as he follows, he keeps his steps even as he follows behind. 

He stops suddenly before the door, and John nearly knocks into him, having so closely followed Sherlock's pace. John steps back, a little bewildered.

"John," Sherlock says, still in front of him, a tall frame radiating just the slightest bit of uncertainty. "If..."

The unsettling quiet drags on as Sherlock's voice fades, and then John's coughing softly to prompt him. "Yes?"

It's uncanny how quickly Sherlock turns around then, smoke of reluctance and desperation warring in the blue of his eyes as he seems to make up his mind about something, stepping towards John. His breath catches in his throat as Sherlock crowds him against the wall of the corridor, palm rough and questioning against the knitted wool of his jumper, pushes him against the hard surface and kisses him.

Their lips are dry, Sherlock's hint of stubble dragging sweetly against his skin, and it's awkward and unsure and a little bit wonderful. "Sherlock," he manages, when Sherlock bites down a little on his lip, gently possessive, before drawing back as if he's been burned.

He's still reeling, disoriented, when Sherlock shakes his head and looks at him intently, a haunted resignation etched in the lines of his face. "We've got to go."

It takes him a while to regain his composure after that. The door, strangely, isn’t locked, and John’s senses are on alert as soon as Sherlock steps into the dark corridor, the kiss slipping quickly from memory as his world locks down to focus on potential danger. Sherlock's warmth lingers, but he tries not to dwell on it. The offices are empty, almost deliberately so, and he ignores the feeling tightening in his spine that tells him to run while he has the capacity, tug Sherlock out and forget the game in favour of his own pacification. Sherlock steps ahead and dismisses office after office, moving up the staircase at the end, tense but determined. 

John swears that he hears a little creak, later, but he ignores that in favour of calling it paranoia. Surely, Sherlock knows exactly what he is doing. Always one step ahead of the enemy, and he would have a plan if anything went awry. Nothing else would be acceptable, after all, so John pushes down any unpleasantries as he ascends the stairs. 

Sherlock passes another six doors before he scans another door, suddenly dropping down and pressing his back to it at a movement inside. A shuffle, and John immediately reaches for his gun even though it’s empty. A comfort, he tells himself, touching the cool metal, and Sherlock throws his gaze pointedly back at the doctor. 

John chances a look inside, but all he sees is a man leaned back in his chair — eyes closed, hands folded in his lap, but the pipe clearly laid on his desk. Probably, they knew, the image had come from security cameras. Nothing else would have given them the exact arrangement they had been looking for, not to mention the luck that the man hadn’t moved his pipe at all. Sherlock eventually moves, slow, to rest his hand on the knob. 

He turns it slowly as he straightens up, adjusting his scarf uneasily as he steps into the room of a sleeping man. John doesn’t like _this_ at all, worse than before, hairs standing on the back of his neck. The air is thick with tension and a disconcerting finality. It’s as though he is being watched, like something is going horribly wrong with this, but he can’t find the words to describe it before Sherlock’s gone and put a foot down in the study. 

What happens next isn’t quite what he expects, not in the slightest. John finds himself wishing and praying that he’d stayed in the flat, curled up with a cup of tea, waiting for Sherlock to come out of his room and announce they’d got a new case.

Someone yanks Sherlock into the study, roughly grabbing his arm and pulling him forward into it, and the sleeping man’s eyes fly open. Before John can think to react, however, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, he’s shoved down roughly, tackled off to the side by another taller, leaner man with a rifle. The grin that spreads on this man’s face screams danger, and John’s jaw is set in a hard line as he stares down the barrel of a gun. Familiar, his mind supplies, and he waits for the other to make a move.

“Leave,” is the only command he gives, pressing the tip into John’s neck — digging it, in fact, so he feels a sense of choking, hands coming up to scrabble at it, push it away. He can’t do something like that, not when Sherlock’s in danger; he has to get up _and help Sherlock_. This man, however, jerks the rifle up enough to slam with some force into his jaw, and he snarls.

“Doctor Watson,” he says dangerously. “If you’d like the dear detective alive, I’d leave if I were you.”

“Load of _shite,_ ” he spits, contempt-laden, and the barrel jerks up again. John closes his eyes as the pain hits him harshly, but it’s not nearly enough to knock him out just yet. Changing his tactics, the gunman rolls back just enough to press it to the door, watching through the glass as he keeps his eyes on John. 

There isn’t a worded threat this time, but John is scrambling to his feet as he leans forward, toward the gun, wanting to pull it away, but he knows that he can’t _hope_ to bring it out of focus before a bullet sails through the door, probably to embed in Sherlock’s back, something that he cannot afford. 

So he moves his hands up in a motion of surrender, backing away, one step at a time — call Lestrade, his mind is telling him, and he makes it a few steps back before he turns to run, not even sure if the man will keep his word. He tugs his phone out of his pocket as he races down the stairs, fumbling with the keys until finally, _finally_ , he’s ringing the Yard, and he’s tripped down a step but he doesn’t care, stumbling forward. On and out. 

 _Sherlock_. 

****

+

The door of the study hasn’t been touched for days — the dust gathered on the outside (and perhaps this anomaly had found a way to open the door on the inside and leave it ajar, it was entirely possible) tells him that the man inside had been waiting for a while now, his posture betraying the dread of a guest. Perfectly arranged, just as Annette had been.

But then he sees that someone else’s shadow is cast nearby, and he drops his weight. John seems to panic beside him, the dear doctor rushing to defend him already as his hand closes on the gun. Instead, Sherlock distracts him from it, nudging his head toward the door, encouraging him to take a look. There’s a bit of hesitation with the way John stands again, but he maintains his composure as he peers into the window.

Sherlock pulls his phone out as John’s slightly occupied, and he sends off a quick text before he pushes himself back up, making sure his gloves are tight before he closes his hand on the knob, a terse sigh escaping his lips as he opens the door and steps in. A confident plant of his foot, really, but he’s genuinely surprised at the second man that comes to tug his arm down, the first pointing a gun at his head as he’s forced to kneel. The door, naturally — _dull_ , honestly — swings shut as no one holds it open, and Sherlock is barely aware of a man that knocks John down.

“John,” he whispers — that flares something in him, and he resists as he attempts to get back to the door, struggling free as he tries to get a better look at the good doctor, before there’s any _real_ danger in that situation. The man sat at his desk is on his feet, though, and Sherlock can just see him in the reflection of the glass with a freshly-drawn pistol aimed shakily at him.

The laugh that comes, though, is clear and unusually steady. Practiced. “Alice,” he says. “When they sent me the pipe... Well, I had to protect myself, didn’t I?”

Sherlock raises his hands behind his head as he turns, figuring that the grip on the trigger may well get him shot before he can calculate an escape. He leans his back on the door, meeting the man’s gaze evenly before he affords a flicker down to the nameplate. “Ewan Matthews,” he says, and the man flinches visibly at the use of his name, tightening his grip on the gun. 

That, of course, tells him that he has the upper hand, and he takes a step closer even as the sound of a rifle being loaded clicks behind him. Almost lazily, he looks past Ewan to the bookshelf as he speaks. “I don’t recognise you, I’m afraid.”

“Volunteered,” he says, and Sherlock lets his mouth fall into an ‘o’ of understanding as he turns to face the other two. That _would_ be the case, allowing someone with barely any connection to slip into the society, letting them play the link that Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to find. Steepling his fingers, he flickers eyes between the two guards, humming.

“And you two... Cards, I’d assume, going with the tale,” he says, pointing at them both before dismissively waving a hand as he presses fingers to his temple. “No, no. Hardly relevant, my apologies. So, by the process you’ve presented...”

Sherlock turns on Ewan again, who has, by this point, tried to calm himself. The man is fidgety, not at all comfortable like the others, his movements jerkier and less poised. Almost as if he doesn’t belong, and he watches Sherlock with curious eyes. Clearly different from the others, leaving a level playing field as he tries to explore this last victim. “You were asleep when I came in,” Sherlock says absently, prompting gently, and Ewan smiles.

“Narcoleptic,” he supplies, a shrug in his shoulders. Affecting callousness, not _quite_ successful, but Sherlock picks up the hint he’s laid down as he drums his fingers on his jaw. Ewan presses on, though, sitting himself down. “As the say, I may as well say I sleep when I breathe.”

The reference pulls a smile, and Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets. “A quote. Dormouse, was it?” he asks slowly, not at all sure, and Ewan offers a tired shrug back to him. 

There’s a bit of a silence as Sherlock comes forward, resting his elbows on the table as he stares this man down. Ewan doesn’t look away, and the men behind him don’t seem to dare to move from their positions. Absolute silence — Sherlock isn’t even sure they’re breathing, really, but he doesn’t care. Not yet. 

“How did this come to you?” Sherlock finally asks, picking the pipe up. “You don’t smoke — obvious from the lack of use, but from your teeth as well. No one finds it odd?”

The door clicks shut, and the concentration is momentarily broken as his attention shifts.A voice from behind speaks, and Sherlock can see his reflection in the way he leans back on the door, crossed ankles and folded arms, a smile playing on his lips as he looks over at the two of them. “Surely you’re not asking him _that,_ ” he says, a roll of his eyes following as Moriarty pushes himself off the door. “ _Bo_ ring.”

One of the gunmen is already dead, Sherlock can see — the twist of his neck, and the latex gloves on Jim’s hands. How very clever — _awfully_ clever, he’ll admit, an echo of words from so long ago. Jim smiles in thanks for the unsaid compliment before he turns and inspects the bloke that’s now taken a visible step back, aiming his rifle directly at Jim.

He throws a glance over at Sherlock for a moment, before a grin spreads on his face. “Don’t suppose you have any use for him?” Jim raises an eyebrow as if he’s honestly questioning his friend about an old trinket they’ve left lying around the flat. Sherlock waits a moment before he turns his gaze back to Ewan, who had whitened at the sight of the corpse.

“Rude,” Jim chides before he turns back on the man, oscillating his head as he regards him. Sherlock watches carefully through the window, the reflection just outlining the posture of the smaller man as he tosses a glance out the window, a tilt of his head in a nod. Barely clearing Jim’s shoulder, a shot comes through the window to embed itself in the forehead of their ‘guest’, the body clattering to the floor.

“Who are you?” Finally breaks the echoing silence after that, even when Sherlock’s sure there’s a ringing in his ears as Moriarty gazes at him. Their stare is held, but Ewan’s soft question pulls them both out enough to look back at him, Jim rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh. 

“Jim Moriarty,” he says easily, and it’s just like Sherlock is hearing him introduce himself at the pool, all confidence and hardly any play in the way he advances on his prey, seating himself on the desk and crossing his ankles. “You’d know which of the characters I am. After all, the amoral Cheshire Cat does love a good game.”

Sherlock doesn’t let it flicker on his face, but he is tossing pieces together as that tidbit of information lands. Of _course_ he’d be the Cat, if not the Queen, a troublemaker and assistant all at once. The antagonist. The good, old-fashioned villain that disappears as he likes, hardly as harmless as an impulsive ruler, especially so in this game. 

Ewan pales. “Wonderland,” he says faintly — Sherlock frowns. Have they never met each other, then? All cohesive parts of a whole, working completely in unison, but hidden. Possibly, Sherlock reasons, to keep the bonds up when a member fell. But Annette had recognised them all, all except the Cat—

“I _own_ Wonderland,” Jim draws out every word, dragging it in the dirt as he leans over to Ewan, ignoring Sherlock’s presence for a moment. The detective watches instead, and he takes in the way Jim’s suit’s been pressed, and he knows that the tie has been recently set in place for reasons he hasn’t placed yet. “Perfect fairytale material. Who would pass up the chance to control something like that?”

“Substances?” He cuts the conversation before Ewan can let another word slip from his lips. “You could have anything — what, with a network like yours. Planting doubt into the minds of the people, and you choose substances?”

“One seed is all it takes — or a spore, in this case,” Moriarty sings, pulling an apple off the corner of Ewan’s desk, grinning widely before he takes a bit. “Doubt’s a bit of a weed, grows without help. Some great poetry in the great detective’s relapse to drugs, though. And I did tell you, didn’t I?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“The final problem,” he sighs, leaning back. “Because really, it’s just...” Jim seems to lose the edge of seriousness that had set into his voice as he gestured out, a flat plane in illustration, and Sherlock begins to pace. Abruptly, however, Jim retracts his hand, and the Dormouse falls dead, shot to the back of his head.

Clean, unfeeling, and Jim sighs.

“ _Staying,_ ” he says finally, dropping the body off his arm and covering his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Sherlock turns sharply to watch Moriarty again, careful now. They’re not alone, and John — dear John, where is he? Molly must have received him at some point, it would be essential. “Staying alive. I’m disappointed, Sherlock. Now I’ve got to play with the _ordinary_ people — except you’re ordinary, just like all of them.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak, and Moriarty folds his arms as he looks out the window for a while. “Oh well,” he sings, standing up as he walks over to Sherlock, a laugh slipping through his lips as he circles him. Hawk-like, waiting for him to make a wrong move. “Now...”

He stops, just behind the desk, toeing the body callously. “Shall we finish the game?” Moriarty spreads his arms, all humour drained from his face as he looks down, out onto the ground, and then back at Sherlock. “One final act,” he says slowly, stressing each word with a heavy mist of condescension. “Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it.”

Sherlock frowns. “Do it?” He turns to face Moriarty, letting the confusion take on his face, stepping forward, hands slightly tense. Something in this situation is something that Sherlock cannot read, the mood settling in a way he can’t hope to understand just yet. “ Do what?”

 And then it comes to a skidding halt in his mind, the answer he’s got to give now, to keep Moriarty at bay, to keep him just in the line of fire for _just_ a moment. “Yes, of course.” He trains his eyes on the opposite side of the street, coming to stand in front of the desk, looking out the window, fixing on the wall. “My suicide. Down the rabbit hole.”

“‘Genius detective proved to be a fraud’,” Moriarty smiles approvingly, leaning on the desk as he looks at Sherlock now, genuinely amused. He drums his fingers on the desk, and laughs. “ _Murderer_. I read it in the papers, so it must be true.” 

Jim licks his lips, and Sherlock affords him a smile as they share a moment of camaraderie, finally on the same side for the first and last time. “I love newspapers,” Jim says, then, his face dropping again. “ _Fairytales_.” 

+

“Yes, this is Dr. John Watson, I need to speak to Detective-Inspector Lestrade _right away_.” The words tumble out of his mouth as he presses his fingers to his temple, rubbing as he tries to soothe the growing panic that threatens to take over. Molly is on her way, having assured him already, but Greg hasn’t bothered to answer his phone just yet.

“Of course it’s bloody important. We’ve got a man threatened _with a gun_ inside Guildhall— No, we haven’t gone to the police, but are you _serious_? You’re just going to brush it off?” He’s hasty as he speaks, pacing outside the building, biting out a reply to the receptionist before she gets much further. “No, no. _You_ don’t understand. I _need_ to talk to Lestrade.”

John looks up at the office, with the open window, and he stands still. “Listen,” he tries another tactic now, calmer, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. His next words are crisp and heavy in his mouth,  “I have explicit information on the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes. Put. Lestrade. On. The. Phone.”

+

“I can still prove that I didn’t do it,” Sherlock insists, coming closer now, spitting his words out with accuracy as he stands firmly in front of Moriarty, his eyes wide. Excited, even, but not quite wanting to cave to the game without his final move. “That all those people — they weren’t me. The evidence of the suicides, it would be _easy_ —”

“Oh, just kill yourself,” Jim says, meeting his eyes evenly with some cheek in his tone. He chuckles, and then his face morphs into a sneer. “It’s much less effort.” 

Sherlock returns the look with some hesitation, his eyes flickering about the room, looking for an escape, something, _anything_ to get him out at the moment, trying to leave before Moriarty can make any kind of wager. Watching him silently until he runs out of patience, Jim offers words of encouragement, almost lulling.

“Go on,” he murmurs into the silence of the study, and then a smile appears that pulls the corners of his lips up into a grin worthy of the Cat indeed. “For me? John’ll be so _upset_...”

Sherlock snaps his gaze back, and then he all but wipes Moriarty’s condescending, persuasive smile off his face as he yanks him forward by the collar and slams him up against the window, upper body barely leaning out over nothing at all, breathing heavily. “I’ll kill you,” he grits, low in his throat, and he feels oddly reminiscent of the time he had watched Jim tilt the Hatter off the hospital.

This, however, seems rather different, Jim hardly flailing, letting Sherlock hold him right there, grip unrelenting. Every pore is emanating a smug, steady calmness. Sherlock finds it infuriating. Surely, though, the man must be insane to have this kind of composure - this glee, almost, over a near-death situation. “No, you won’t,” he almost purrs out. “Wouldn’t risk that, would we?”

With the same motion he had seen before, Sherlock jerks him backward, and Moriarty seems to lose his sense of calm for the first time today. He suppresses a smile at that, the smug pride at the idea that maybe he has an edge over Jim after all, holding him prone like this. 

But Moriarty calms after a moment, assured that he isn’t about to topple out of the window, regaining his upper hand as he pushes Sherlock back. He continues in a soft, deadly tone, lifting his hands up in a kind of surrender. “I’d be careful, Alice,” he says, pulling his suit down in one flush movement. “Don’t want to make Daddy angry.” He tilts his head to the side. 

“Let me give you a little extra incentive,” he murmurs lazily for a moment, before he grins as he’s found the solution he’s looking for. “Your friends will die if you don’t.”

Sherlock bristles for a moment, and he flickers his gaze between Moriarty’s eyes, looking for some sign of a joke, a puzzle piece, just like it had always been. Never about anything more than a game, but this — _this_ Jim isn’t at all joking about, even with the grin on his face.

Friends. Sherlock had never had friends, not that he cared for, but he knows very _damn well_ that there’s a certain doctor standing nearby, and he cannot risk that. He knows that he owes it to his association with The Woman, the assistance that Molly had rendered him — Sherlock jolts him again, sending Jim’s arms up in the air as he grips Sherlock’s sleeves again. 

“John,” Sherlock says, the most obvious of the lot. Much as he’d like to deny that, it isn’t as if anyone will believe anything other than John being his friend, and perhaps the only one he will have left as soon as this incident is over. 

Moriarty’s grin spreads, and he shakes his head. “Not just John,” he almost laughs, even when Sherlock could so easily release him, let him fall off instead. “ _Everyone_. Gunmen, _cards_ — there’s no stopping them now.” 

Sherlock tugs him up, then, meaning to strangle him, meaning to hang him up and force another route out, but Jim’s faster as he leans in, a warm clue delivered into his ear. “Unless my people see you jump,” he says, almost lazy, almost sighing at how he has to tell Sherlock, another clue that the detective has missed. 

Moriarty adjusts his jacket with one swift tug, and he chuckles as he spreads his arms wide. “You can have me arrested. You can torture me. You can do anything you _want_ with me,” he leers a little, shaking his head as he speaks at the pain of delivering all this information. “But nothing’s going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Unless—”

He knows what Moriarty wants. “Unless I kill myself. Complete... your story,” Sherlock adds to the end, his voice tight. He looks down again at the ground, but his eyes don’t shift, hardly seeing. Instead, his mind is whirring, calculating possibilities, and he waits. Just waits for the right time, and he has to delay it just enough. He can’t be late, _can’t_ be. Can’t afford to be.

Jim starts to laugh again, and he nods as he comes to stand near Sherlock again. “You’ve got to admit that’s a lot sexier,” he says offhandedly, his tone light, and he seems to be flitting his gaze around as he gets _bored_ with this. With trying to kill Sherlock, because why has it been so _difficult_ thus far?

“And I die in disgrace,” Sherlock continues, hardly listening to Moriarty at all, connecting the dots verbally in his head, a map that finally has a route traced in a red felt marker. 

“It’s dramatic! Pride comes before a fall and all that. Of course, that’s the point of this,” Moriarty’s brow furrows, and then he throws a look to the window with that same, slightly thrown look. He walks over, a couple of light, dance-like steps, and he bends to peer out. “Look. You’ve got a bit of an audience now.”

He throws a grin back to Sherlock, inviting him forward. There isn’t any mistake as Sherlock sees John in the square below, furiously trying to explain something to Molly and then to another woman who’s far too curious for her own good, someone he doesn’t quite recognise. The way he gestures wildly as he points up to the office warms Sherlock just a bit, and Jim eggs him on. “Off you pop,” he says, emphasising the ‘p’ as he turns around to walk deeper into the study. “Your death is the only thing that’s going to stop the killers, because I’m certainly not going to do it.”

That sets off a lightbulb in Sherlock’s mind, but he pushes that down in favour of watching John, furiously ranting at that woman again, before he parts his lips to speak again. “Will you give me... One moment, please. One moment of privacy?” He finally asks, the Cat stares at him like he’s being ridiculous. 

“Please,” he stresses again, harder, and Jim licks his lips as he considers it. Finally, he rolls his head out again, and he steps away. “Of course.”

+

Finally, they have assured him that police are on the way, and that he isn’t to worry. Molly’s gone to get him a coffee despite his insistence that he doesn’t _need_ one, that he’s perfectly fine and that he is perfectly calm. Instead, John keeps his eyes trained on that window, open, and prays to God that there isn’t going to be another shot clearing it. 

And now, he’s on the phone with Mycroft, the tight sighs numerous as he explains the situation. There seems to be more exasperation in the words Holmes the elder offers him, and he assures him that he’ll send a team as soon as he can locate one. 

“Take care of him, John,” Mycroft says, just before he hangs up.

“I try,” John’s reply is wry, and then he clicks it off to look for Molly.

+

_I’m certainly not going to do it._

It ricochets in Sherlock’s head after he’s taken a good hard look down, and he starts to laugh. A relieved chuckle at first, but it quickly grows into a proper, low rumble in his throat, audible even to the criminal walking away from him at that very moment. Enough to stop him, and pull an irritated sneer from him.

“ _What_ ,” he demands, his eyes wide in a poorly masked concern that he’s genuinely found a loophole, and that perhaps the plan won’t work after all. “What is it? What’d I miss?”

Sherlock turns, and he steps away from the window as he continues to laugh. It irks Moriarty, and it seems to spurn him just enough to delay him a little bit further. “ _You’re_ not going to do it? So there must be a recall code — a word, or a number. A song, even, I wouldn’t put that beneath you.”

This time, the detective dances around Jim, a mimicked pattern as he moves around, the expression on Moriarty’s face slowly contorts into a confusion that isn’t familiar to him. Moriarty isn’t a stranger to a puzzle, but he doesn’t quite understand — and Sherlock relishes how he gets to say it first. “I don’t have to die,” he says, continuing in a light tune. “If I’ve got you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jim’s eyes widen as he looks up, as if it’s scandalous that Sherlock should even consider it. There’s the hint of another smile coming, but it’s quickly suppressed as Jim continues, almost a tad nervous. “Sherlock, your big brother and all the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to—”

“Yes, but I’m not my _brother_ , remember?” he tucks his hands neatly behind his back as he looks down at Jim. There is no ‘game’, now, just a conversation. Hardly, this is a competition, a race to the finish, and Sherlock absolutely plans to go out with a bang. “Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do.” This is about his final move, Sherlock notes, careful as he lays his words. “You want me to shake hands with you in hell, and I shall not disappoint you.”

Jim snorts. “Nah, you’re ordinary. You’re on the side of the _Angels_.”

“Oh, I may be on the side of the Angels,” Sherlock concedes that, but he matches Moriarty’s gaze, even and calm. “But don’t. Think. For one _second_ — that _I_ am one of _them_.” The bright blue fixes Moriarty’s pointedly, and he keeps him rooted to the ground as Sherlock reads his gaze. Calculating, both of them estimating the next move, trying to play a slight of hand.

Finally, Jim peers up into his fixated stare, and he frowns as he looks at Sherlock now. “...No,” he finally says, and Sherlock’s shoulders fall as he releases the tension. Something changes and shifts in Jim’s eyes, and then he blinks heavily. The voice is lighter now, far more innocent, leaving him staring after Sherlock with a childlike curiosity. “You’re not.”

The tone changes now, and Moriarty is laughing, an occasional breath of air that just seems to throw Sherlock’s impression of him off-kilter, leaving him staring into the eyes of a man that he hardly recognises. “I see,” he chuckles again. “You’re not ordinary. You’re _me_.”

He rolls his head around, and then his face slips back into place. A guard sliding into position, and he extends a hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, almost reverent, almost an answered prayer that he’s finally had granted. Sherlock doesn’t know exactly what to expect from it, but he slowly raises a hand to clasp Moriarty’s. Firm.

“Thank you. _Bless_ you.” Jim nods vigorously now, looking up at Sherlock, and he swears that there are tears in Jim’s eyes, slowly glazing him over. The emotion, the sentiment for the game, the crucial flaw that should set them off. Sherlock doesn’t have to die, now, not when Jim’s so far gone. Choking down something that seems like a sob, Jim looks down to the side. “As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out — 

And that just won’t _do_.”

Sherlock freezes at the sudden tone in his voice, affected, and he whips his gaze back up to Jim’s eyes as he closes them, mumbling to himself for a moment. Then, his eyes come open again, and the lazy smirk returns. 

“Off with her head — Or that’s how they say it,” he says, and then Moriarty’s eyes are wide and excited, his mouth open as he pulls a gun out of his coat. Sherlock jumps back before he thinks about anything else, a yelp of surprise escaping his lips as the gunshot rings out, loud and jarring in the silence of a library office. The Cat falls as soon as he returns his gaze to the ground, the trail of blood steady as it seeps out of the back of his head. 

Sherlock resists the urge to panic, instead focusing on the guns. _Gunmen. Around London,_ he repeats in his mind for a while, trying to find a solution. How should he stop them? The glaring solution — to go with the ridiculous plan he’d formulated and _take the fall_ , believe that he wouldn’t collide with the ground in a tragically miscalculated descent — seem ridiculous, but he doesn’t have enough of a choice. Not now, not when the blood’s starting to travel on the carpet. 

He looks to Moriarty, spread out on the ground. The final two, the Dormouse and the Cat, laid with a couple of cards, something not at all clean, not at all structured like the story. It looked like a mistake, and it certainly painted a vivid image that Sherlock had indeed simply lost his mind, sent over the edge by the need for recognition. The maps of Wonderland — nothing would make sense without Irene’s assistance, and he was sure that she had already departed by this point.

Gunmen. Sherlock looks down, out the window, and steps up to the ledge. John comes back into view, then, and he quirks his lips into a rueful, painful smile that the doctor cannot hope to see. Sherlock hopes — prays, even — that he’ll at least listen.

+

“Hello?” John doesn’t have time for this, not from an unknown number—

“John.”

A pause of confusion before an encompassing flood of relief, and he turns immediately to rest a hand on Molly’s shoulder as he almost folds over. “Yeah, Sherlock,” he says, looking up at the window, searching for a shadow that he can see, not masked by the glare of the sun, running close already. “Thank God. You okay—”

“Turn around,” Sherlock barks out in command, but John cuts him off smoothly. “No, I’m coming in—”

“Just _do_ as I ask,” Sherlock says over him, louder, firmer, and the doctor stops for a moment. 

“Please,” he adds for good measure, and then John is turning, his voice much softer as he searches for something to comply with Sherlock’s instruction. Always unquestioning, loyal, so damned naive but still endearing. “Where?”

“Stop there,” he says, and John finds himself beside Molly as they look up at the window together, John resting his hand uneasily on the van that had pulled up, the team that Mycroft had sent making their entrance into the building now. “Sherlock?” He prompts, an edge of worry as he looks around, not _quite_ seeing where the detective is. 

“Okay, look up. I’m at the window.” Sherlock’s voice sounds dead enough, and John searches for the tell-tale sign at the window that his friend really is there. Nothing for a minute, and then the shuffle of a coat as Sherlock’s feet emerge, barely visible. 

“Oh, God,” he breathes, and he’s transfixed by the sight of his friend, sat on the ledge, his legs softening slightly before he tightens his resolve. John forces the steps back and he firmly roots himself where Sherlock’s told him to stand, because there must be a _plan._

“I—” Sherlock starts, and again there’s that tantalising rush of _more_ in his voice before it’s gone, replaced with something far darker and far less pleasant. John almost wants to tell him to continue, but Sherlock swallows audibly before he speaks, soft. “I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

John’s breathing hard from the initial run, having made it a good distance forward, but he still has the breath to ask. It smells all wrong, and Sherlock seems to be hiding something again. Not now, that can’t be afforded, not when there’s a rush of adrenaline now that screams at him to run up into the study. “What’s going on?”

“An apology,” Sherlock says smoothly, missing a beat before he speaks. John watches him carefully now, Sherlock swinging his legs dangerously, knocking his heels back against the window as he sits there. “It’s... all true.”

“ _Sherlock—”_ That genuinely throws him, because he hasn’t the slightest idea what Sherlock is going on about. “What?” He asks impatiently, wanting him to get right to it, to the bottom of it, without much else. John honestly hasn’t the time for this, not for a game — and _where_ the hell are Mycroft’s men now?

“The newspapers were right all along. I...” He says deliberately, but this time, Sherlock’s not as concerned with keeping his cool. His voice sounds vaguely like a sob, and John’s brow furrows deep. “I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly — in fact, tell _anyone_ that will listen to you that _I_ killed all those people. For my own purposes.”

“Why are you saying this?” John’s jaw clenches at the shiver that runs down his back, and then his eyes narrow as he tries to get a better look at how Sherlock is sitting, how he’s just covered by that bloody window. He can’t be thinking — Sherlock isn’t that stupid, he isn’t about to hurl himself down in front of all these people, not when there’s surely another way out. “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, _shut up_ ,” he says, refusing to believe it, holding on to this for a moment as he stares up. “The first time we met — the _first_ time _we_ met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

Trying to distract him with a deduction, and John knows that he must. Something’s wrong about the way Sherlock’s sat on the ledge, something far too resigned in the way he speaks now. His response is slow, sluggish, even, and it’s a lulling sort of pain that sets in with his words. “It’s a trick,” Sherlock says, and John is shaking his head in denial before it comes through. “It’s just a magic trick.”

“No,” he protests aloud finally, and then he opens his eyes to look up. Steady, and he puts on more of a commanding tone than he’s tried to use for a while, not ever the course of this case, the ridiculous odds riding higher against him right now. “All right, _stop_ it now.”

He tries again to step forward, but Sherlock doesn’t let him move. “Stay _exactly_ where you are!” Sherlock raises an arm now, John can see, and he stills. Raising his hand up in a motion of surrender, John returns to his spot. “All right,” he says, pacifying, and he seeks Sherlock’s reassurance, an explanation. Something to tell him that it would be alright. _Anything_ to tell him that it would be alright.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me!” He says, more steady now, and then added as an afterthought, “Please, John. Do this for me.”

John waits a beat before he asks, not quite sure he wants to know. He’s running out of time, painfully obvious, and John finds himself desperately waiting for Sherlock to reveal something brilliant, a plan that no one else will see through. When he finally gathers himself, the question is tight. “Do what?”

“Tell them,” Sherlock smiles a bit at that, and John can hear the quirk of his lips as he speaks. Sherlock _knows_ what he’s doing, and he hates that his friend doesn’t seem to care all that much as he sits. John pushes that down, however, knowing that it’s a lie. Sherlock is far too concerned about everyone, every _thing_ , cluttering his mind. “They’ll be glad to know the case is closed, at any rate. The murderer, removed at last.”

“Removed?” John asks, voice faint. Pleading with whatever he can, still and begging, desperately trying to stop him before anything goes to pot. “Sherlock, what’s going o—”

“Forgive me, John,” he says, and then the line goes dead. John is shaking his head, still pressing his phone to his ear, his steps already moving as he tries to get around the bloody van, the crowd of people making it impossible to get through as the feet slip out from the window.

The body follows, absolutely still as it descends.

The next few seconds pass in a horrid slow motion, and John watches, completely transfixed as Sherlock falls, colliding with the floor before he even has the chance to fully get his feet in motion, pushing past the crowd to get to the clear space in front, where the doctors have already rushed forward, the entire team that John had amassed now blocking his way as he ploughs through them. 

“Sher... Oh, God, Sherlock,” he’s whispering like a prayer, crossing the ground as he breaks into a run, stepping up to the crowd, barrelling through as he pushes people aside, desperate to see him. Desperate to assure himself that of _course_ the detective is alright, anything else would be ridiculous.

“Let me through, I’m a doctor, _please_ ,” he begs someone, and then he sees the body — Sherlock’s eyes are wide open and unseeing, the blood flowing all over his face, nose clearly broken from the fall already. While the gore hardly unsettles him, John feels his legs give out, and he’s whispering a ‘God, no’, as he kneels beside the body, taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist for a sign of pulse. Anything, really, to convince himself that he isn’t... That he isn’t.

John refuses to say it, violently shaking his head as they try to talk to him, trying to get an answer out of him. Not even when they pick Sherlock’s form up and haul it away on a stretcher, not even when Molly comes to his side to pick him up, her arm sliding under John’s, bringing him to his feet. He raises his hands and tells her he’s fine, even if there really isn’t _anything_ inside his mind. Not now. The body disappears around the corner, and all he can think is how magnificently _stupid_ Sherlock Holmes really is. 

How magnificently stupid, he corrects despite the grief that sets in hours later, Sherlock really was.

+

It takes him three weeks to remotely allow himself anywhere near it, because going any earlier would probably have resulted in a rather atrocious breakdown he would rather conceal from Mrs. Hudson. She’s already cried for hours, and Molly’s been round to hold her when John can’t. 

Because John just _can’t_. It’s as simple and as devastating as that.

When Mrs. Hudson goes with him, the chatter brings back far too much for him to stand. Talking about the equipment reminds him too much of the ridiculous incident with Carl Powers’ shoes, and then she brings up the flat and he sets he straight, telling her he can’t go back. Not at the moment, not when half of it still smells like that ridiculous tea Sherlock left brewing on the stove.

She tries to pacify him, honestly does — but again, the way she rattles on, pulling up dregs he had tried to wash away. John’s tried to stay locked up with his sister, getting more drunk than he’s been in his life. He tells her that isn’t quite that angry at that point, and he tries to slow her down before he shouts. Before he fucking shouts about how he doesn’t _care_ because Sherlock’s gone and thrown himself off a bloody _building_ without much of a reason to. Leaving every single one of them behind in craze of interviews, a bunch of shameless vultures swooping in on John. 

 _Especially_ John.

But then he’s alone with Sherlock for the first time in weeks, and it’s not quite the same way he had pictured it. Rather have been at home, again, with his tea and the crap telly, watching Sherlock criticise every little nuance of a character. Something along those lines, the same kind of behaviour that had been apparent at the end of every case.

“Um- ” he stumbles over how to begin, how to speak to a dead man, because Sherlock isn’t exactly very informative in the way he lies there, is he? No smart quirks to egg him on, just words that don’t seem to mean much as he lies six feet under, letting John speak. If he can force the words out at all. “Right. You...”

“You told me once,” he says slowly, clearing his throat, looking at anything but the headstone, eyes ahead on some other bloke’s marble as he tries to speak. “That you weren’t a hero. Um...” he pauses again, and he lets out another breath. 

“There were times I didn’t even think you were human,” he says, as a kind of dry humour that Sherlock will definitely appreciate, and the words tumble out as their lightness helps to pacify John for a moment. “But... let me tell you this.

“You were... the best man; The most human...” He searches for a word that would fit a man like Sherlock Holmes, but he comes up short and ploughs along, shaking his head. “Human being that I’ve ever known. And no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie.”

He figures that he should leave a silence, in case his friend feels like an interruption. He always had, always _had_ to have the last word. Instead, John fills his own space, adding a quick, brash, “So... _there._ ”

It isn’t enough. Something about what he’s said isn’t enough, and John feels himself tighten up as he looks around, making sure he isn’t being watched. So he steps forward, uneasy, and he rests his fingers on the cool black surface, closing his eyes as he first makes the contact.

“I was so alone,” he whispers tightly, but his voice steadies as he presses on, knowing he’s got to talk goddamned loudly if Sherlock’s even going to _hear_ him over the deductions he’s making even now. “And I owe you so much.”

Then his feet take him away, but his mind throws around another round of Sherlock’s voice, raw and rough— he isn’t even sure that’s how it was said, but again it surfaces and it’s enough to stop John in his tracks. 

__

_Forgive me, John_.

He marches up to the stone this time, continuing to talk with the emotions crashing over him, not really considering anything that comes out of his mouth, harsh and angry and _broken._

The hurt, the _pain_ , it burns at him, breaks him all over again whenever he remembers Sherlock’s anguished, resigned expression. “Just so we’re straight, I don't forgive you, you bastard. I don't, because I need you to return from wherever you are so I can punch you in the face, so you can issue a proper apology, so you can fucking make it up to all of us. 

“I _don’t_ forgive you, I don’t,” John says, breathing hard now as he presses a hand to his face, almost surprised to find that his eyes are wet. He pinches the bridge of his nose and huffs out a breath, steadying, willing himself to composure. “But if you come back to us, I just might. So come back, Sherlock. Just stop this, whatever this is,” he gestures wildly around him, “And come _back._ To us." 

Very quietly, John adds, tired and faint and _pleading_ — 

"To me."

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to our beta, Mairead, and all our crazy friends for their unwavering support! You've all lovely; may you have dreams of beautiful gay men frolicking about naked in meadows (before romping gloriously amongst the flowers) for the rest of your lives. 
> 
> It has been an amazing ride. Megan's a wizard with storylines and plot— her attention to detail and ability to weave threads of clues and mysteries together is simply astounding. I consider myself exceedingly lucky to have landed her as a co-author because we have complementary writing styles. ♥  
> — _Kimm_ (bloodsongs)


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